I remember seeing that
for the first time
on the back of a hand
at a show 

and smelling
the tired fire scent
of obsolescence 
wafting by

I knew the music
would survive the symbol
but it would take a while
before it shook free

of fashion
anti-fashion
fascism
and other labels 

The amplifiers are suspicious
of the rest of the equipment.

The guitars and drums and the bass
aren’t all that keen on the keyboards
but they all agree on what insufferable
dicks the microphones and PA are;
it’s gonna take brawn and art
to keep their war from being fought. 

It’s gonna take a bunch of humans 
wrestling them all into a surly truce
to get them to scream rock and roll
in rough, raw parity with one another.

a descending series of chords
a chorus shouting “hoo”
a man speaking in rhythm
rhyming a bit
a touch of sing song

a target
hit repeatedly

it’s working
early in the morning
for me as a listener

this atmosphere where

all your secrets stay safe
all your liars will lay
all your stories are stains
on that mattress

I’m crying
in bed

how much do I like that guitar
I ask myself
I like it fine

how much do I want it to be
guitar and rhyme and not meaning
that’s getting to me

I like distance

I like a target
hit repeatedly
from a distance

this is working
I declare it
a good song
a target struck again and again

I swear I’m not listening to the words

— italicized lyrics from “Mattress,” by Atmosphere; from the album “Sad Clown, Bad Summer”
(listen to it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RRcLFA0wW80)

In Sweden, extreme bands
thrash like icy schoolkids.

In Brazil, there are bands
who root themselves in pounding and scream.

In India, happy are bands who know
that all kinds of heads are made for banging.

In the United States there’s one band
for every market in every loud box.

In metal there is a noisy truth
which crosses a border

on its hands and knees
when necessary

but which always
stands up by stage time. 

Glorious here, even as the noise
has fallen silent.  Silent glory as
the musician dies.  In his wake
or her wake — glory being no disrespecter
of any people, any persons,
all are lit evenly and well by it.

If we never hear the musician
again, the music still lives.  Lives
in the mouth of another, all our ears,
and the hands of the bearers — living being
no exclusionary state, no prison
for the art it engenders.

Glorious, living music here, though right now
no one hears.  Hear that? No music now,
but the absence that demands it.  No filler,
no stuffing, nothing just to add shape — the missing noise
was and is perfectly shaped already if it indeed arrives.
The artist is not the art.  Sing for that glorious truth.

“he didn’t leave much to ma and me just this old guitar and an empty bottle of booze”  s. silverstein

if you thought it was written by Johnny Cash
you are forgiven a little

if you thought he was telling the truth 
you are forgiven a little more

if you hate your name too 
and all you have to fight it with
is your missing bad ass dad’s old guitar

you are not only forgiven everything
you are blessed and should forgive me
for everything I am about to say

“they’re dead wrong I know they are cause I can play this here guitar”  weill, mann, lieber & stoller

can you explain 
why it took four people to write one line
about a truth every 16 year old kid 
with a death grip on a maple neck
learns by osmosis
from the first chord

“well I got this guitar and I learned how to make it talk”  b. springsteen

can you
interrogate your guitar
till it owns up
to things you have never done

“the bitter comes out better on a stolen guitar”  d. bowie

if you’ve not 
stolen a guitar yet
have we even seen
your bitter yet

“your guitar it sounds so sweet and clear but you’re not really here it’s just the radio”  l. russell

ghost superstar by dint
of your broadcast ominpresence

in fact in truth in real life
we end up usually alone
in a small room
with wood and wire 
pen paper and bone

this is what
it does for you
does to you
kid 

get ready

no hairband power ballad
broken hearted nostalgic chum
high on the neck twiddle de dee
for thee tonight

no power chord slammed across
the fingerboard rosewood and bridge of ebony
no fingered delicacy rejection ode
for thee tonight

what happens now
between that G string and me
whatever happens a bend away
from the obvious note is my choice

but let it not be the same as always before
let it not be a stumbling around soundhole
as if that were canyon and not foramen magnum
the open spot on the head of my child

in this fresh moment between me and thee
let what creation may come
not be familiar or copycat or influence bound
let it be ours and new and ready to grow up and out

First song I hear today:  
“Box Of Rain.”

I wish I could remember what it felt like
to be a Deadhead.  All that song means to me now
is that some college kid’s being clever
with a hurricane on the way.  But there was a time,
allegedly, according to photos and ticket stubs I’ve saved,
when I knew everything
about everything Deadish and the first notes
would have set me spinning, talking about
concerts in Lewiston, Nassau, Pasadena.

Let me stress that I was never a hippie.
I WAS NEVER A HIPPIE.  Too violent
and cynical ever to have been one,
I’ve owned one tie-dyed shirt in my life
and most of the acid I’ve dealt with 
was my own bitter bile.  But something
there was in me 
once loved the Dead
as a good son loves the first full escape
from home…

Oh, that lifestyle:
no concert ever the same twice,
no song ever the same twice,
no guarantee that you’d ever hear
what you wanted to hear;

goddamn, it was the perfect extended childhood —
everything new and surprising,
every time.  “Nothing to do except
smile, smile, smile.”  Ah, you have to love them now:
such easily marketable icons, such a deep well of symbols,
such a music no one ever even really tried to make.

A hurricane’s coming in tonight.
I have to buy something or other to survive.
Maybe I’ll drag out the old records and listen tonight
but then again, maybe I won’t — 

nothing really to do except worry, worry, worry.