Poem: God Moved Through His Fingers

A poem for/about Carlos Santana

Carlos Santana had a good decade,
it was called the 1970s. He wasn’t
the only one. Joni Mitchell and
Stevie Wonder too. Randy Newman
and Steely Dan, Frank Zappa, and
Patti Smith. Neil Young, Linda Ronstadt —
but once a year or two, I work through
the Santana catalogue, and cannot
believe the world he built, the way that
music still sings with a vital swing. And
then nothing for a while, and then nothing
but cheese. Another way of thinking about
it is he got old, lost his vitality. But it’s more
than (just) that. There was a time when he
had the magic touch. God moved through
his fingers. He picked a world of new music,
electric, weild, wonderful — but now gone.