Feb 012013
 

If you’ve never met Roadie Poet, definitely take a stroll through his archives. It won’t take you long to see why he’s got a cult following all his own.

There’s something drab about
Places like this.
They’re all the same.
Generic.

This is what it looks like
when you’re
a roadie.

The color’s on the outside,
where the paying people sit.

Not here,
where the employees go.

Don’t matter if they’re athletes
musicians,
or roadies.

In the end,
we’re the paid help.
Nothing more.

Not even
the reason
for places like this.

As drab,
generic,
and boring
as they are
back here.

Backstage.

But later,
Oh, later,
this entire building
and every person in it
will pulsate
with the music.

Every rafter,
every tendril of light
that escapes the drapes
we’ll hang
will throb.

Pulsate.
Throb.
Rock.

This is what it will mean
to rock the house.

And it won’t matter
that when you look away
from the stage,
all you’ll see
will be
drab
compared to the
magic
we’re creating.

For you,
the paying people.
Who never get to see
how drab
our existence
sometimes
is.

This was a Three Word Wednesday post. Stop in and see what others have come up with.

Feb 092012
 

No clue where this came from. Or why. Or even how. The Three Word Wednesday words this week were pretty dark — control, flesh, razor — but this… isn’t.

You have to have
control

to slip the blade between the skin and the
flesh.

Like this.
Slow.

Don’t breathe.

Much.

Or talk.

Don’t do that either.

But

Do

Wash the
peach guts
off the
Razor

before you use it

to open

that box

of t-shirts.

 Posted by at 7:10 am
Dec 302011
 

New Year’s Eve.

I’m off tour.
More’s still out.
So’s Hambone.

Mom’s with Antonio.
They’re going strong.

That means
tonight
It’s just me.
Alone.

For New Year’s Eve.

Used to be,
I thought
only losers
were alone
on
New Year’s Eve.

I’m no loser.
If anything,
I’m a nomad.
A nomad
With friends
On tour.
And a mom
with
a love life.

I’ve heard it said
that
what you do on
New Year’s Eve
is
What you’ll do
All
Year
Long.

Hope that doesn’t mean
I’ll be
Alone.

All.

Year.

Long.

 Posted by at 6:42 am
Sep 132011
 

Last night of the tour.
I walk across the stage.
Last time.
Not that I’m nostalgic.
Or glad to be done.

It’s the footprint.
Just one.
Back near the speaker stack.

One footprint.
Like a ghost.

Hambone says it’s a
size 18.
I’m an 11.
I’ll take his word
for it.

Band’s guitar tech,
Jimmy,
left it.
So they say.

No one’s sure why.
Or how.

It’s creepy.
Jimmy,
he died one night.

Bus 18.
Same as his shoe size.
Woke up when they got to town,
found him there.
In the john.
On the floor.
Spilling into the hallway.

That night,
the footprint appeared
on the stage
over near where he’d stand,
back by the speaker stack.

Three guys from Bus 18
quit the tour.
Rumor has it
they went to rehab.

Tonight’s the last night
of the tour.
Last time to see
the footprint.

Just one.
Like a ghost.

Not that I’m nostalgic.
Or glad to be done.
But I’ll be glad
when I don’t have to see
that footprint.

Ever again.

 Posted by at 6:41 am
Jan 122011
 

“Moist,” Hambone proclaims.
“Moist and meaty.”

He digs back into
his steak.
Poor thing.
Dead.
Harmless.
Doesn’t deserve the treatment
Ham’s giving it.

I don’t know who said
steak deserves anything.
‘Cept getting eat.

You don’t get
steak
on a roadie’s contract.

That means
we’re in a restaurant.
Me and Hambone.

I almost forgot
my restaurant manners.
Ham
never
had any.

“Moist and meaty!”
he yelps.

I try not to slide
under the table
to hide.

There might be
someone’s
steak
under there.

One that wasn’t
moist and meaty.

Believe it or not, this is a Three Word Wednesday post!

 Posted by at 5:10 pm