Dead Rats Dressed in Drag

Being in a band is like being married to four or five different people, all with the same problems.

See I was a musician before I became a poet/writer. I slung words with the help of my

Guitar

Piano

Organ,

Played a slew of grimy bands, Rock Blues Punk Surf 

(I learned that most people don’t really know how to play their Ax, their piece, their childhood dream that was interrupted by an unbalanced

head

soul

Economy)

But it’s the oppression classic rock has bestowed on the world—like Stairway to Heaven, the keeper of the people, the conversance the world’s accustomed to—brainwashed and embedded some souls; like a demented Jesus nobody really loves inside, only out loud,

(about every four years when it’s time to use and manipulate the world with what they do not know)

Or Lucy and his fur dressed in drag: who pulls and plucks these strings of madness and distortion— bangs on drums with too many cymbals the tribal beat extinct, the tribe murdered by electrocution and way

too

much

cash).

I just thank God everyday for Bukowski

Hemingway

Fante

Kerouac

Trocchi

Without them, I’d be just another Dead Rat Dressed in Drag, stumbling through a world that died long, long ago

IMG_1012

 

Related imageby Jon Vreeland (poem) and Alycia Vreeland (art)

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