J.T. Whitehead

Dream on, bourgeois baby 



By day

the bass player’s

a C.P.A.


By morning

the drummer’s



His nose

is nestled in

her hose,


at her calf,

or her shin,

peeled half-


way down

her legs, his ten-

sized shoes


thrown to the

corner, a playah,

& down he goes.


In this town,

4 different bars

host their shows,


throw in booze,

tune guitars.

Smiling Mars,


The Back-Door,

O’Leary’s, & Ho Ho Ho’s.

& that makes 4.


The mixer/


was a lawyer.


You insist

you’ll let your kids

do this, too,


unlike tight 

parents before you,

always right.


One guitarist

sells property, stock,

(a capitalist).


Unlike you,

he rocks.  They rock.

& you just want to.


& his echo,

& his flanger,

each rush to go


faster & faster

than his thumb & finger,

& each of them


likely knows

more about picking

than he does.


This volume

you’re hearing

makes you deaf.


You don’t know

a treble from a clef.

You just assume.


But I assure you,

at least 1 of you,

in this very venue,


swimming in rhythm,

dancing, overcoming blue,

wants to be them.


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