Trying To Write Poetry While Listening To Shit Poem by Max Reif

All the MacDonalds' have wireless now,
and this one in Blackhawk
is more like a Swedish modern cafe,

but today the stuff they're playing in the background
is more like American Neanderthal,
like those commercials with the caveman
wearing a suit and tie,
I forget what those are even trying to sell.

The production values
of this noise
are sophisticated,
but after an hour
of background organ
and drumbeat
a touch of disco
a touch of soul
without soul,

I'm pretty near insane.
Now though it's Harry Chapin,
'I'm gonna be like you, dad, '
always liked that one.

Back to my argument —
the psychology of muzak
is keep people from thinking
so they're happy-or 'happy',

and lately it's also take them back
to their roots, and everywhere I go,
since we babyboomers are so legion
and have money now,
the audio backdropp is the '60s,
not the wild '60s,
no Jimi or Janice or Jim,
but enough to make
my memories roll over fitfully
and sit up in bed,

though I wonder
how a 20 year-old
hears 'Eight Days a Week'
or 'Lyin' Eyes'
(and where is the 'cheatin' side of town',
by the way?) ,
devoid of old memories
of what they were doing
when those songs came out?

Now at Peets Coffee,
they play classical music
and the mind can hear itself,
somehow. But no wireless,
they said they're workin' on it.

The Righteous Brothers are on now,
'Baby, I can't make it without you, '
and I remember at our high school prom,
the cover artists joked
'I can't make you without it',
and I looked at the girl I was with
and tried to laugh in a carefree way
and look like everyone else,
all the while feeling fairly uncomfortable,
not knowing her
well enough to acknowledge
the existence of sex in the world.

Now 'every sha-la-la-la,
every whoa-whoa-whoa still shines'.
Napkins in the ears can only do so much,
I think I better get outa here