Captain

Through the door of the Ship Room comes
one snapped mental carrot,
one steamrolled nose,
a duffel full of puppets,
and the echo of his scratchy greeting
piercing the room:
with a hearty “yee-yee” and a “ham-ham-ham,” 
the Captain
has arrived.

I’m one of only a few in the club
who know his real name.
I’m not telling.
Here he’s the Captain and
he runs things
by presence
and enthusisam
and chaos, perfect
sweaty chaos.

A band on stage
grinds out bluespunk
and here come the shark
and the pig
out of the bag.  The Captain
slugs and pops
at the front of the crowd
and thrusts them at the singer,
who hasn’t played here before
and has no clue how to react,
but we sure do.  We’re pointing
and moshing like pirates
behind him, the rock and roll
unleashed, now the bassist gets it
and starts to grin, steps up the bottom
as we charge and yell for louder
and more, while the Captain
leads us puppet-handed into
the heart of Saturday night.

Half these kids don’t know what they’re seeing:
the act I’ve known for all these years
still in progress, this stocky little block of a lunatic
for the release of every tense energy ball
in our chests and our feet knows us,
isn’t afraid to lead us to crazy and abandon.

No one would believe me if I told them
anything of what I know of him: how I’ve seen him
tear a computer down and rebuild it
in less time than it takes to power one up;
that in rare moments he quotes Shakespeare;
that under the weed and the acid scars
there’s a guy who once knew more about more things
than most of us could imagine forgetting —
but he’s managed it, for the most part.

Somebody outside the club calls him a retard
and I want to flatten his nose,
tear out his hair, tell him that now
he’s ready to judge him.  The Captain
wouldn’t care, of course, and that holds me back.
A rock and roll army needs its leaders.
Needs the lifers who live it.  Needs the guys
who could care less how they’re seen
by people with healthy metal carrots
and nothing alive in their hands.