Plain Speech of the 29-Year-Old Explaining What He Wants to Be When He Grows Up

This is, like, an instagram of the tape turning melodramatic, as if

fresh adolescence mics our instruments too close to the groin

on an upbeat and a quick click on the wah-wah pedal plunges

the falsetto through the floor, though that’s not what they’re made for

and you know it, still moshing in the misappropriations of what

your parents paid good money for, an irregular working class

evil of the college frou-frou art “scene,” destruction on display

in tomorrow’s pawn shop window, when the drums can’t kick

their habit and your bassist finds a job with insurance and the rhythm

guitarist inevitably concludes he really doesn’t know how to play

in the garage basement community full bar house party practice space

you, your band, that one guy and the local heroes are living out of

till the side project you really give a fuck about takes off, you play

on your friend’s couch, in the parking lot, in bed next to the girlfriend

you live with while not on the road catching scabies in a white van,

play fucked up on whatever with whoever till whenever and at 7am

you don’t bother waking up, just rolling over onto your guitar, asking

where you can put this damn thing when you’re done playing and

you have to take care of yourself and a few things, ‘cause

I hear people do that sort of thing, Man.