It’s Thursday night at Hardy’s Basement
Furious Intent’s slopping over the edge of the stage
Debbie Scenestealer’s drunk and hooting
by the soundboard where if signs are correct
she’s sleeping with Ronnie again
On stage Bobby’s saying he’s gonna cold-cock Gil
if he fucks up one more change
Spooky the drummer can’t keep time
with the apocalypse going on in front of him
Sandy’s E-string is a half cent flat
and that makes her bass sound like a sick foghorn
They’ve all got pawn shop specials to play
and someone’s got a blown tube
so there’s fuzz all over everything
and it’s starting to get painful
but at least we’re not breathing the smoke
from the patio when we’re in here
breathing the fire roaring underneath the noise
Spooky counts another one off
and it’s Dead Boys time
like we need a cover of Sonic Reducer
to crank this up any higher
but tonight they’re faster and louder
than usual
or maybe they’re finally drunk enough to play
Sandy’s finally reached up and tweaked that string
Gil’s finally keeping up with what Bobby’s putting down
and Bobby’s finally putting EVERYTHING down
gonna spend it all right here and now
every speck of how pissed he was just before this
showing in the veins ripping through his neck
and there might be blood on the strings
considering how much blood is in the song
and it seems all at once that we do
need another cover of Sonic Reducer
if Debbie Scenestealer’s gonna have anything to say about it
when she comes Docs first across the floor
and is onstage with the band
Bobby hands her the mike
and damned if ninety-five black leotard and eyeliner pounds of Debbie
isn’t turning into tornado awesome right before our eyes
as Furious Intent slops tsunami dagger fire over the edge of the stage
and Hardy’s Basement becomes the best damn hellmouth on earth
for two minutes and thirty nine seconds
right before the house lights come up
and Ronnie starts telling us to get the fuck out
we don’t have to go home
but we can’t stay here
as if we thought anyone could
or should
stay here
for any more time than it takes
to burst into flame
Daily Archives: October 26, 2010
Sonic Reducer
Thirty Mescalero Men
My father gave me
my first knife
when I was six.
A Mescalero man’s
only half a man
without a knife,
he told me then.
I keep a box
with sixty knives in it
under my bed.
That means
I’m thirty Mescalero men,
I guess,
which seems like
it ought to be enough,
but forty-some odd years later
I still don’t feel
like he would believe
I’m any
of them.
Outlaws
Blurry Southern Rock night
at the town beach.
Scent of weed
and sound of horseplay
out by the drainpipe.
Pit’s beating the crap out of Russell again,
Nancy and Linda are screaming,
and I can’t get the front seat of the Celica
back to an upright position
so I can get out of here.
Sirens
coming closer, closer, then they fade
away.
“How come they turned off?”
Next day we hear that
while we were pissing our pants,
Wally was stabbing Marc two miles away
at the pits. Argument over two rotten
little brothers and a botched B & E,
two older brothers
messing each other up over honor
and family, which little brother
ratted out the other —
and then Marc died and they caught Wally,
so that’s it.
“So that’s why they turned off.
They went down there. Damn.
Lucky, huh? Sucks for Marc, though,
and Wally too…”
Russell chops out a couple of lines for each of us,
and Pit’s the first to bend to the mirror.
“Here’s to Marc!”
Friendship’s a great thing
at times like these. We’re gonna go all night again,
play some cards,
boogie down as always to the Brothers
and pretend we’re outlaws,
forever outlaws.
Instances
In an instant from now
a woman will start to tell someone
her life story,
not starting at the beginning
but with a carefully chosen anecdote
she has used many times before
to set the stage for all her other stories
she has to tell
but which will have to wait
for another night.
In an instant from then
the person she has chosen to speak to
will tune out and focus on
something else, perhaps because
it is uncomfortable to sit and listen
to such things, perhaps because the story
is unbelievable, perhaps because
there is another person that makes more sense,
or because the tattoos on the teller are silly
and distracting, and the storytelling
will seem all for naught.
but in an instant from then
another person listening
as she tells the story to someone else
is going to realize how empty
this life has been
and make a silent promise
to begin to fill it
as soon as this is over.
Every instance,
a connection. Every following instance,
a connection. Every connection,
intended or unintended,
the destined connection.
Dark Matter 