Brian Wilson hasn't blinked in years.
He sits on a yellow and white lawn chair
in his yard and stares out at the beige suburban street
waiting for the sprinklers to turn on and water his eyes.
He remembers in that instant the sensation of crying.
He hears the bushtits calling in the shrubs and the neighbors
opening envelopes filled with fine print nothings.
He talks of the song the Panama Canal sings as it
strains in the sun, and what a beautiful melody it makes.
Brian Wilson, recreates this for the neighborhood council
and in turn they present him with a blanket, and inscription that reads:
"Gene is bones and clay, but you are not.
Brian Wilson you are the tide and the moon.
God bless you, Brian Wilson."
