J.T. Whitehead

Dream on, bourgeois baby 

 

 

By day

the bass player’s

a C.P.A.

 

By morning

the drummer’s

snoring.

 

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/

producer/song-writer

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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