Emerald Sink City Blues

Emerald Sink City Blues

Because Seattle's so sad, so slow, we
slurp cup after cup of espresso and
frequently force ourselves to go
to clubs and shows which feature local
comedians and loco bozo jokes of
rock & rap & roll, but even so
it's no go. Even after much pounding
laughter and many bitter
drafts of caffeine, we
still feel sad and slow.

So what's the deal? Why,
in spite of our brave efforts,
do we feel so low? What power
drags our collective ego, down so?
The sloppy weather? No, I don't
think so. Some grave phenomenon
sinks us even amid brief summer's
hot green and gold.

You know. It's the
Norwegians.

Yes, somewhere in Ballard
(perhaps in a tavern)
sit a dozen or so
Norwegians
who, dreaming as one,
generate a magnetic mood so heavy and icy
blue that neither I, you,
nor yo' mama
could possible stand up
and mambo under it.

But what can we do? What can
we do, short of exploding
our brains with Colt 45's,
or taking graceful swan dives
off the Aurora, or spiking
our caffeine with amphetamine,
or moving to Florida's Okefenokee
or Arizona or even Southern—God no!—
California?

You know.
We can form a committee
and take up a collection
to send those dozen or so
Norwegians
to a farmhouse outside Fargo,
North Dakota, in the middle of no-
where, hopefully below
six feet of snow,
where those
Norwegians
can amuse themselves,
but under quarantine.
And, ja, I think I'll go too.


Harvey Goldner