As you know, I have never been very good with electronic gadgets of any sort.

I haven't figured out how to use even half the features on my cell phone. I always need to have help in even setting the time on my digital watch: and so I'm now embarked upon another exercise in futility I'm sure. However, I am doing my clumsy best to program my new "XM Radio" satellite receiver, which you gave me for Christmas; trying to figure out how I can program one unique "My Favorites" channel.

I realize that I am asking the impossible of my new toy, but I would like to be able to program a station that would only play the most special and magical of songs; at just the right moments.

The channel would only play, say for instance; John Mellencamp songs on Mondays, (mixed with a smattering of Los Lonely Boys) , so I could recall the countless times we gleefully sang-along his songs together, and my mind would then wander back to that Saturday night in Freedom Hall - jamming with them Indiana boys - dancing in place until my knee throbbed.

It would be programmed to not play any worn out Billy Joel piano songs, but would with regularity mix in "Just the Way You Are" our adopted song, and I could think to myself how well you liked the melody, while for me it was all about the lyrics; wishing they could have come to fruition for us both.

On sunny summer days it would serve up selections from Fleetwood Mac; the "Rumors" album; and our minds eye would transport us away on a 'big ole jet air liner' to Cancun, where I would fantasize of a certain sun tanned Skinny Minnie gringo - all wide-eyed and wonderful -snorkeling the Isla de Mujers, her bubble-butt bikini pointing the way to heaven: tequila-giddily asking a local Chihuahua's owner in which language his dog barks.

In the cool of the afternoon, we would float off in dream sequence to an enchanting underground river of sound where we would rewind that magic duet in musica romantica; we could déjà-vu the power of emotion shared by two exotic songbirds. I still marvel at how a canto we couldn't then comprehend, could haunt us for so many years after we would inevitably loose full recollection of the melody.

In the autumn, we would take a drive together - sunroof open - up to the Big South Fork; and the tuner would know only to feature Keith Urban and Tim McGraw radio hits; and you would be all luminosity and good vibrations, your hair swirling and trailing into yesterday. And forlorn me - hoping beyond expectation as we navigated the back roads - that the feelings you have for the music could be a catharsis for what you are so seldom able to feel with me; that it would help you forget about your deprivations; and that could allow a small glimmer of the glow to flow toward me.

Then again, on Fridays, it would play the soundtrack to 'O Brother Where Art Thou'; and we would re-live the Great Depression together; ignorantly blissful and barefoot among the cotton fields of west Tennessee. In the sweltering afternoons, John Prine would take us down back roads in automobiles, with pants to our knees; and in the evenings, Leonard Cohen could - like the dog day cicadas - drone endlessly into the wee hours.

Of course, it would be the "All Al Green" Channel on Saturday nights. You would be teasing and flirting with me, when suddenly it would jump up and play us some snappy Van Morrison ditty, and we would hop in the car and drive the horny mile and a half to "Friends" nightclub where we would dance unabashedly together until we were lathered in a summer sweat; I'd perfectly hit the high harmony on "Brown Eyed Girl", sticking my 'Sha Na Na' into your ear at the climactic moment. Then again, I'd be doing my best Johnny Cougar strut, and I would once again excite your body, and you would be so bold as to touch me underneath the table in the darkest corner.

On holidays it would always remember to serve up - with a side order of fireworks - Tchaikovsky's 'Overture of 1812' complete with deafening cannon fire and simultaneous orgasm. I would be lying back on the blanket, along the banks of the Mississippi River, with you carefree at my side. And if I didn't drink too much; and after I'd listened patiently enough, we would get to hear James Hyter sing six choruses of "Ole Man River"; and then, as the tears would begin to well up inside my bosom, this one enchanted evening would downshift into his unforgettable rendition of "You'll Never Walk Alone", and I could then foolishly carry on - pretending the world to be righted again - and I could then fall asleep sans struggle.

'Voice of One': Jerry Buckley

by Jerry Buckley

Other poems of BUCKLEY (53)

Comments (3)

Love it is great and supreme. The great writing it is felt.
....love, unmothered Childhood wanly waits...... Unmatched beauty of expression.
This poem does not flow when read out loud but would gain personal meaning if it was memorized and spoke to oneself. The ending is the best as it is easier to understand and gives the reader something to disagree of agree with which is one of the points of writing poetry in the first place.