Oh, we're halfway there! (oh, oh, livin' on a prayer...)
NEW YEAR
It’s the Year of the Prius, the Can You
Hear Now women who ride the ferry
celebrating the Year of the Xanax.
It’s the year of the transformation,
the Body By Brandy, I’m tired, but ready
to go. Tell me when will you ever be ready
to go. It’s the Year of the Underdog, the men
with gelled hair and how I want the rough
and tumble, the Bruce Springsteen of my dreams
to rip from that oxford, toss his penny loafers
to the side. Tell me, how did we end up
in the Year of the Bewildered Republican,
the Year We Jumped From the Plane
and the price of bread is rising. I’ve opened
my wallet too many times in the Year of
Lend Me Twenty Bucks, Year of Not Paying
Attention. There’s a phone ringing and it’s me
calling myself as I’ve lost
my cell phone again in the Year of Preservatives,
Year of the Brain Tumor. Joe Jackson told me
it was the Year of Is She Really Going Out
With Him? But I knew it was
The Year of Boy Who Certainly Ate Paste,
Year of Unwritten Twain Novel, Foly Huck
We’re Screwed. It’s the Year of the Bamboozle,
the Year of Will This Ever End?
It’s the Year to Save a Life, to save someone’s
life who’s going under. Please don’t give me
another year of Ralph Nader, of chads,
of an election not worth fighting for.
I’ll take a Day of Let’s Run Into the Streets
over a corporate meeting with Krispy Kremes.
I’ll bring the paint, you bring the signs.
We were desperately trying to impeach
someone, maybe the men who sell mattresses
at a discount, the Supersonics and their dream
of Oklahoma. We lined the streets in our hippie
clothes with the motto Hemp Saves Lives,
and some of us should have showered, some
of us should have combed our hair. Okay,
we didn’t have the best lighting. We didn’t know
who kept shouting Vote for Pedro, and this woman
who searched for Macy’s was pushed
into a window, and I kept thinking about her
grand-daughter crying, and the crowd was a swarm
of bees, of wasps, and we were stung, and we stung.
And I knew I was part of the problem.
I saw a man in an oxford shirt and I fell
in love with his clean-shavenness and God,
he looked like Bruce Springsteen and I fell
off the sidewalk—there were legs and shoes,
and the chute wouldn’t open. I knew then
even the rough and tumble boys couldn’t save me
until I reached the Year of Responsibility,
the Year of the Street Sweeper cleaned up
the bullets and confetti we sprayed in fear.
