Early Saturday morning, ears throbbing,
happily bruised from my first pit in years,
I stagger in from the Aggressions’ reunion gig,
drop the black leather jacket on the couch,
and settle into the recliner
for some “Antiques Roadshow.”

It’s a repeat — Ooh!  This is the one
with the ’52 Telecaster in, like,
mint condition that’s been sitting
in some guy’s closet untouched
since his father died.  Sick —
who the fuck leaves something like this

untouched for thirty years?
A guitar’s meant to be played.
And now the appraiser’s
creaming his gray suit over the fact
that the tweed case is mint too —
not a sticker to be seen.  He’s tossing

some incredible number for its value
at this dork who can’t believe it.
You can see the dollar signs rising
in his throat…while all I can think about
is wrapping my hands around that C-shaped neck,
plugging that mother into a Hot Rod Deluxe,

and burning out
every coil
of both pickups…but that’s
not going to happen, so
though I’m drunk, I pull one more beer
from the fridge and turn the TV off.

I learned a long time ago
that there’s a downside
to having a rock ‘n’ roll heart. As you age
the rest of you
doesn’t keep up, and you find yourself
with a churned up gut every time you see

someone who doesn’t have a clue put in charge
of a perfect tool of the trade.  If I could,
I’d get new organs to ease the burden
on the old ticker — say,
steel eardrums and elbows so I could
get as close to the stage as I want;

a rock ‘n’ roll bladder so I wouldn’t ever
miss a note; a black metal liver,
a hardcore bile duct, a blues rock forearm
so I could shake the strings forever
without my bursitis kicking up; shins
and thighs and feet as steady as reggae

and an ass tighter than Detroit funk.
This old heart of mine does what it can
but it could use a little help sometimes,
especially (like tonight) when I see some young punk sneering
at the old guy whose moves are all wrong
from the outside but whose soul is still eighteen

and ten feet tall and tequila bulletproof
in the face of the certain and unwelcome
slowdown of age.  Gimme shock treatment
and a transplant, a full set of new parts to be abused
all over again the way I used to do it —
and let me get my hands on that Tele,

because you assholes don’t have a clue
as to how to make it priceless.  It’s got no value
until it’s been scratched and dented,
until a thousand forgotten bands have been plastered
all over that obscenely clean case, until it’s worn
and everything’s been replaced at least once.

I should know.  My parts
are all original, and could stand
a little restoration, but they long to sing
and stomp and agress when needed.
Given half a chance, they could still rock the way
they used to.  Given half a chance more

and a new set of knees,
I could pull a Townshend leap
and clampdown like Strummer
on a stale old cover of a fresh idea.
Given a body like I used to have
and my current head still in place,
I could lay a million dollars at this guy’s feet

and steal
that wasted instrument back
to the home
it deserves to have…
and I wouldn’t need a new heart to do it,
because this one still beats hard

and loud.