The other day, I was in Grog-Shop to see the “Battles”
math-rock and math; they both suit my type
And I adored John Stainer,
probably the realest alternative drummer of our times
and I hung out with an Ukrainian PhD student
from Case Western, and his doll-like Asian girlfriend
we mixed the weird and recurring rhythm of Battles
with some cheap cans of Pabst Blue,
and talked soccer and existentialism of
Graduate School during the break.
Things got awkward, when I was in the restroom;
all walls painted with glaring graffiti blue
there was John Stainer standing on the aisle next to me;
he had a beer-bottle in his hand
and he was drunk like a pagan priest.
Indeed a moment to treasure when your
favorite drummer is peeing right next to you.
and I said “Damn John! is that you”?
and he got into a laughter-riot, in a drunk sort of way
we both laughed, talked a while and did not shake hands.
The metropolis lives, like a war-veteran.
over-head bridges of pre-cast concrete slabs
bear the weight of piss and alien dreams
degenerate electric-poles are bent
like cabinet-ministers, and the roads
tell the untold stories of cocktail-waitresses
who just wanted a clean job, so they can send
some money back home. Buy books
for their kid brothers may be, make
a little dream-theater for their
worn-out mothers. But are we defeated?
I have stopped counting temples in my
God-stoned city. The specters of
dreams cloud her sky, and they keep coming back
through our own vertigos. In my Metropolis
dreams are reborn, before the devil knows they are dead.