neil young poem corey mesler In 1970something I saw Neil Young live in Memphis, scratching away at that ragged guitar, filling the air with that off-key voice. And it all added up to something beautiful, something unlike anything else. I still think of it nights when the crickets hesitate, nights when I’m driven backwards by some radio crap. Once there was a garden. Once there were players who, if not gods, were chosen. And they sang for us, mortals living on a makeshift planet, wanting jubilee.