They fall upon us over the spillways of time, Burbling at us through some Radio Free Nostalgia Courtesy of some college station sitting at the far left of the dial Or streaky CDs at the rear of some forlorn shelf, And we know them to be to be, if not outright falsehoods, Among the more variable of truths (As all truths are, if weβre being honest about the matter) For when someone sets out to create the Great American Whatever, It becomes quickly apparent that such paths Are not straight and clear, but wind and double back upon themselves, Replete with thorns and weeds with bladed edges; Egos must be stroked, revenue streams and margins considered, Leaving oneβs primary legacy as a testament to compromise.
But to be a casualty is not necessarily to be a fatality, And through the narrowness of a three-minute window, Purveyed to us by quartets of chanteuses Who were no strangers to compromise their ownselves (So many staged photo shoots, So many hokey Christmas songs and cosmetic-sale jingles) We can glimpse momentary epiphanies, Crescent-moon slices of the verities, Which, if not the whole truth and nothing but, Provide us with something to hold, something to hum As we go about the tortuous business Of making some sense of the whole **** thing.