The grove of eucalyptus stands in broken formation,
attentive to the sound system’s call out to the splotches
of color between the trunks – people sitting on their
blankets on the hillside, sprawling scattered like wildflowers.
They have come to let their ears drink and be dazzled
by the words of a pop prophet who has committed slick
utterances to song. The tattoos are shining in the crowd,
the ocean mist rubbing them bright blue – the dancing
grandma hippies gather in the aisles, carried away by
the groove of hips shaking in protest to the ravages of time.
Then security comes to calm them down until another
spontaneous burst of peace, love, and happiness starts up
again. The bubble machine sends up its spire to intercept
the clouds. Bottles of water serve as impromptu bowling pins.
Three gay men share a single beer. There’s nowhere
for even a butterfly to land. Why is that woman coming out
of her top while her husband dozes next to her with
their dog on his lap? There are thousands of unanswered
questions in this morass of human behavior, but the one
all eyes turn to is why the guy leaning against the stage
insists on filming the show even after he was told not to.
Is he rude, stupid, or has he come unglued by the narcotic
tentacle enveloping his mind? Perhaps he’s gliding down
from his contact high and is being swept along on a wave
of euphoria. This moment is so good he wants to capture it
forever. Does he just not trust his memory or does he know
that it will be gone by Friday, scrambled by an abundance of
calls on his attention overriding anything inscribed on his brain
today. It will drift away, part of a persistent dream of days
that frays along the edges. He will wake up to battle his
screens forever, to wonder why the past reawakens a sense
that his life has a shape to it, but only when he sees it moving
in high resolution. The replays bring him pleasure,
that permanent state he rides in that grants him some
unraveling cord to bind him to the repetition of his ways.