As I said over the weekend, the winds are starting to bring some changes around here. While I’m waiting to evaluate what those changes are (and if I find them acceptable; so nice to feel in control of SOMEthing!), I’ve been playing with my characters.

I’ve been trying to come up with something for a Flash Fiction Carnival I’d like to take part in. I’ve got some things in mind — I hope they correspond to this weekend’s writing prompts! — but somehow, inspiration for some fiction came in the guise of Roadie Poet. Not that RP is going to write fiction anytime soon.

Anyway, it dawns on me that many of you who hang around here on Thursdays haven’t met the Roadie Poet yet; he tends to come out for the Poetry Train.

So… Meet Roadie Poet.

Thirteen things about Roadie Poet 1. His poetry is often the only poems many of my groupies read. 2. He’s definitely a male. For a while there, I wasn’t certain. My groupies helped me figure it out. 3. I adore this guy. Read on and see what you’ve been missing. 4. He doesn’t have much of a life off the road. He lives and breathes roadie. 5. Even over the holidays. 6. Even when the hours are long. 7. When he’s not on the road, he lives at home. 8. He’s got a best friend named Hambone. 9. And a girl named Maureen, who he calls More. 10. She’s often working when he’s free. 11. But they find ways. 12. He can party hard. 13. But he sleeps better on the bus.

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Tour’s in full swing.
No clue where we are.
One city, another
All look the same.

Inside.

Days pick up a rhythm
Bus moves with one
Rhythm drives you up the ladder
Takes you back down
Across the stage.

No clue what the sun looks like
Or if there’s snow on the ground.

Who cares?
Days move with a rhythm.
Set up
Show
Tear down
Hit the road.

This is when a roadie learns
What’s in his blood.
If the road is there or not.
If his blood moves
With
The rhythm of the road.

Don’t forget to take a ride on the Poetry Train! Grab yourself a car while you’re at it, too. The only rule is that there are no rules, so join in, why don’tcha?

Christmas break.
Two days in a hotel.
Little box of a room.

It’s a room.
Hambone and me, we don’t complain.
We know better.

More’s staying with us, too.
Tour’s happy about that.
Saves ’em the cost of her room.

Hambone pretends to sleep.
We turn the TV on for noise.
Try to be quiet.
None of it works.

Tour rented out a room
For a crew Christmas dinner.
A bigger box of a room
But at least we’re not on our own
Since we can’t be home.

Me and Hambone and More, we’re glad of that rented box of a room.
We’re a team now,
Musketeers of the road.

It’ll be hard to find tours like this
Until word gets out about us.
But so what.

Right now’s what matters.
Best Christmas present we could hope for.
Me, Hambone, and More.

Musketeers of the Road.

Afternoon.
I’m on the floor.
Hambone’s snoring in the bed.

Bed.

Did you miss that part?
Looks like I did.
I’m on the floor.
Hungover.
On the floor.

Hambone’s got the bed.

More’s got the other one.

I’ve got the empties from last night’s party.
There’s a lot of ’em.

Two beds.
Three peeps.
One’s my girl.
Explains why we’re naked.

But not

Why

I’m

On

The

Floor.

Want more Roadie Poet? Click on his name and whoosh, you’ll be visiting his character sketch page, where you can link to more adventures. And for more poetry and other cool self-expression, check out Rhian’s Poetry Train — and join the party!

Got a girl.
Name’s Maureen.
Guys call her Mo.
Friends call her Reenie. Or Reen.

I call her More.

Crew don’t get hotels,
Just a shower at the site.
I’m on Bus 1.
She’s on 7.
Anyways,
Nothing’s private on a bus.

Time’s hard to come by.
She’s busy around the show.
That’s my rest.

I tried to help her out some.
Band showed me the door.
Told me to be a good crew boy
And stop sniffing around their girls.

So me and More
We skipped dinner
Snuck off
Found a spot behind some empty cases.

She’s a great kisser.

Hambone saved me dinner.
But I want More.

Yep, another melding of the Weekend Wordsmith and the Poetry Train. I don’t know about you guys, but I dig the Roadie Poet. And as you can clearly tell, he’s now got a definitive gender.

I think this one is still a work-in-progress; we shall see. Once again, feel free to post today and jump on Rhian‘s poetry train. There are few cooler than Rhian.

Nine PM

Nine PM
Half-hour to the headliner.
I walk on the stage.
Opener’s finished.
Crowd’s worked up.

I been here since 6AM
I’ll be here another four hours or so.
But Nine PM
That’s my break.
My nightly laugh.

The cattle cheer when they see me.
The place comes alive.
The air snaps.
Like I’m the star,
Not just some roadie
With a job to do.

Most guys,
It’d go to their heads.
They’d get a few girls
hand out promises they couldn’t keep —
or wouldn’t.

Either way, it’s the same thing.
Guy gets laid.
Girl goes home.
Alone.

Right now, I got a job to do.
Walk across the stage.
Make sure everything’s plugged in
Gaffed down
Like it’s supposed to be.
Leave again.
It’s simple like that.
Good.
Easy.
After the day I just had, I need that.
And those yelling fans
Wake me up real good.

Bronx cheer or real,
Don’t make no difference to me.
They can scream until they can’t no more.
Won’t bring the band out any faster.

Nine-thirty’s their time.
Nine’s mine.