| when you disappear in a photograph of yourself
|
| stuck to your guitar at your parents' prom
|
| and you know you’ve got to play that perfect chord
|
| but your fingers slip and all the notes are wrong
|
| your hands are half invisible and your band is freaking out
|
| your future mom and dad don’t know that’s who they are
|
| but then future dad finds courage and kisses future mom:
|
| is that god, or just your skills on the guitar?
|
| either way, the results are equal,
|
| so just accept it,
|
| just be glad
|
| it doesn’t matter until the sequel
|
| when the good old days go bad
|
| everybody needs a genius scientist to tell them what to do
|
| or at least a teleprompter to remind them of their lines
|
| but sometimes you get so wrapped up in the narrative arc
|
| you forget the details of the plot from time to time
|
| and sometimes the other actors just can’t memorize their cues
|
| and you don’t always have the budget for a second take
|
| but as long as you can concoct some semi-plausible happy end
|
| doesn’t matter if the happy ending’s fake
|
| like an anvil,
|
| a harmless anvil
|
| a harmless anvil that falls in a cartoon
|
| like the footprint of an astronaut
|
| in a photo of the surface of the moon
|
| so roll the credits,
|
| cue the music,
|
| turn on the lights
|
| count the receipts and close the cash up for the night
|
| find a teenage boy to sweep up all the popcorn from the aisles
|
| i’ve had enough entertainment for a while
|
| it’s time to go now,
|
| but don’t be scared
|
| take the wheel
|
| while i punch in the code
|
| it doesn’t matter,
|
| we don’t need cars
|
| where we’re going we don’t need roads |