Trying To Write Poetry While Listening To Shit

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