Poem: The Billy Joel Madrigals

A poem that’s actually a memoir. In brief.

The plan, when I left school, was to grab a degree
quickly, head out and get a job. I was going to work
in journalism, I fancied the ‘entertainment’ beat, but
knew I’d be writing a story or three about cats in a
tree, and the 102 year old blowing out most of the
candles, and the inclement weather, and the best
deals on BBQs for the fictional golden summer…

But I didn’t get into the Communications course,
and just as well. So I moved to Wellington instead
of Auckland — and enrolled in a Bachelor of Arts.
I breezed the first year, which made me think
I could do that again. And then promptly did not.
So I bummed around, found fun in all the wrong
places — went slowly mad, but it happened rather
quickly. I was at my worst for a while there. And I
didn’t seem to care. I just raged on against the dying
of any given night. Up late with my pen and paper,
some ciggies and the stereo. Hitting down hard on
typewriter keys. Dodging the degrees, and skipping
on rent. I found Bukowski at precisely the
very worst time.

Got way too good at drinking, and really didn’t aim
for much else. Thank god, though, I never made it
into a band that recorded an album. Thank god as
well that I never released that first book of poems.
Those were the saving graces. Not much really, when
I think about it now. But it pulled me back from the
ledge of insufferability. And slowly, with time, I built
a better version of myself. But that work is ongoing.

I found no money in all the right places. I found myself
through working hard in dead-end jobs, and misleading
opportunities, and thankless tasks — and stupid-big asks.
I did the time, because I owed it, and didn’t know much
else besides. Became a big fan of the spiritual cleanse.
Sold all of my Bukowski books, traded most of my CDs;
these millstones were not for my future necklace. I had
carried them along for far too long, thinking that they
were supporting me. It was time for a change. (Seems I
needed more sleep). Fat boy dancing Gershwin’s blues.

I don’t think about those days very much anymore, but
they’re meant to plague me still. That’s the debt I owe,
the one I must carry. The folly I’ll forever know. I came
to the wrong city, made all the wrong moves. Eventually
found the love of my life, and the straight edge of life, and
traded the music for memories. Which is fine because I
was only ever using the music to access memories in the
first place. And then it all just got out of hand so quickly.

I’m glad I pulled it back. I’m glad I’m able to tell the story,
prosaic though it may be. I went in search of anything else
instead of the job I was meant to be doing. And then I finally
found myself. There was no map for the longest time. And
I didn’t want to end this with a single Billy Joel reference.

But he may be right!