Originally posted 11/16/2012.

I am rocking out to music 
that once upon a time
I would have said sounded
like a series
of mistakes

Must be getting old
rocking out 
sober clean cool
tweed up
flannel down

I can rock out to anything
now that no one’s looking

Rocking out
in my empty living room
Rocking out with this
whatever its label
However many strings it has
However its hair looks

Had hoped once to die
before I got old
What a damn fool I was
I would have missed
rocking out
to a series of mistakes

I would have died afraid of mistakes

Originally posted 8/20/2013, original title, “Hip Lament.”

Today
supersweetened ukulele. Tonight
mere kisses on the banjo, tomorrow
untroubled unplugged guitar.

Once, the people’s music;
now it sates a lust
for a chipper soundtrack
for slighter ways of life.

These raw instruments
were once rams, crowbars,
shovels.  Once, we rocked our Jerichos
with their firm assent.

Now, they are
mostly overcooked and bent;
serve mostly to ease
hip laments.

Fuck the gentling of raw instruments.
Fuck spring in the step
and no darkness
behind melody-thin walls.

Fuck simple
and bright and easy.
Fuck a depression costume
and a plinky-cute tone.

Fuck abandonment
of the dark.
Fuck smoothing
of the rumble strip in the guts.

Fuck harmless, fuck canned,
fuck background,
fuck a soothing playlist
full of nothing;

fuck having fuck-all to say.