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