I’m up, with my ear to the universe again
listening and waiting for Fagen.
I stare at his latest portrait;
his graying stubble and well worn lines,
the wicked double waves of his protruding lips.
I study the backgrounds of his photographs;
try to make out the titles of the books on his shelves,
the tiny models of buildings, the ornate clock on his desk.
I pore over the precise way he holds his hands,
the curve of his fingers, the reflections in his eyes.
In this light he looks mischievous,
now there he’s more pensive.
Note the crescent slope of his right brow;
what music was he hearing in his head as the shutter closed?
Perhaps he was inventing another character
to fulfill a scene in a song which will eventually
be jammed and embedded in my head -
his #9 footprints pressed in my cement.
Nobody to blame but Fagen.
I’m a dupe for details, layers of lament,
gracious groove, facetious fiction,
and the plaintive, penetrating snarl in his voice;
one moment isolated, then exposed.
Fagen fascination hit me early on
and unlike the sisters of Babylon
I couldn’t shake it, baby, I couldn’t shake it-it-it.
Though we might never be face to face,
I’d settle for just one day in the studio.
I dream of walking on his salient planet.
Gripped in the gravity of his persuasive grooves.
I gaze at his gleaming metaphors,
spellbound by his chordal constellations
and I wonder what worm h*** he'll conquer next.
(C) 2007 Marissa Dodge