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William Heyen-IV



No, I’m not protesting too much when I say I wouldn’t want to be

                 Paul McCartney

who is launching—this is 2013—a U.S. tour requiring thirty-one

                 trucks of equipment

including lasers, huge pyrotechnics, explosives, state of the art

                 video displays—

at one point in the show, Sir Paul will rise 20′ above the stage

                 in a spiral construct

as he performs “Blackbird” & “Here Today” acoustically… Imagine

                 being one of the old Beatles,

traveling to sold-out arenas where berserk fans want your DNA

                 so your bodyguards

have to cut a swath through them & through paparazzi

                 & you become

caricature with make-up & rush through changes of clothes,

                 & whole industries

of roadies & technicians & record labels & vendors of maryjane & hot dogs

                 & memorabilia

expect you to deliver. No, I am not protesting too much, he’s my age,

                  I love this

easy chair of mine, candle & coffee & cursive, sure I’d like money,

                 enough of it,

to fund my four grandkids’ college educations, pay off a couple

                 family mortgages,

but all that hype & blare, that travel, & the burnished oldies receding,

                 ”Hey Jude” & “Yesterday,”

& John in his grave, & George in his, strawberry fields, don’t you & Ringo

                 just want to stay home

wherever home is, don’t you just yearn, Paul, to compose something

                 even better

than what you’ve done, aren’t you gut-sick of spending your power

                 in such disquiet,

wouldn’t you withdraw if you could, aren’t you, compared to me,


they’re all screaming, you’re seventy & spiraling up through colored smoke,

                 you’re trying to sing

acoustically, “Blackbird,” while my own “Redwings” &”Blackbird Spring”

                 are much better,

I’m insufferable to say it, but it’s true, “I celebrate myself,” you could build on

                 your book of lyrics

Blackbird Singing, couldn’t you, I’m going to write better every year, are you,

                 Paul you’re wearing

too much rouge & lipstick this spring day as the males have returned

                 to marshes hereabouts

to declare their territories, look, look at their bright red gashes, hear, hear

                 their warning songs!