This flower is tough and dusty. Nonchalant as grass and so's its friend. And its friend's friend. They die during snow, then revive in warm weather. They are incurious, though years ago they were bright and nervous. One of them should've been famous. It is tall, faded red. They know a lot of history, that the world is not naturally cool. No one has the balls to cut them and press them in a dictionary or a bad diary about boys. There are three main flowers, and one exotic weed. In the seventies, they had a band. They made music in their spots. They understood something people understand, to make a whine wiggle through air. A bit of marijuana would burn and talk nonsense. They condescended to any drunk beer, but this comes with all music.
When the band was active, the flowers were the center of a scene. A song was mumbled and loved, and took its time. Dogs walked by and the flowers made fun of them. People made noise in the apartment building and threw bits of cigarette off the balcony. The flowers stayed up all night. Classic rock makes people realize things they already know. My grandma has an album. The art is out-dated. I can't find a thing to play it on.
They tremble in the wind. The flowers have felt everything before. They are a faded red with dark age spots. Spider webs use their stems. Bees do not sniff these. The band broke up vaguely. A song hung in the air awhile, before anyone bothered taking it down. Song structure can get so automatic, a song finishes itself with no heart, with no surprise, and is leaked and made real, even though it lacks artistic integrity.
A sound can mutate hi-tech. A sentiment can weigh down the honey. Drugs are always a problem. A band becomes a hobby after things lose their sheen and stall. Band members see mirages of solo endeavors, and lean into these blindly, like a smell.
In this band there was a lead talent. Inspiration funneled from nowhere into this talent. Talent can be overwhelming, and the lead shared it with its friends. The other two grew confident with the extra talent. One grew charismatic, the other grew morose.
I heard their hit song once on a Classics Special. Only a guitar can soul-twinge like that. The bulls-eye center, the pupil, the good small details, a toothbrush on the asphalt, the exceptions. The other day, I went to the butterfly conservatory sweaty, and the butterflies swarmed me, very unlike usual. “It’s stabbing me,” I yelled, and they tickled in a painful, yearning way. Such is the exhaustion of all fans. The flowers are no longer so talented. They can only watch what happens around.
Rachel B. Glaser has a book out from Publishing Genius, if you are curious check it out here. She is soon to be an aunt! She used to watch Luke Goebel make out with his dog during class. Now she does the recumbent bike.