tiny device
in the palm of my hand
transports me back
to a distant land
a paddock
out on the edge of town
footage
rarely glimpsed before
backwards
through the march of time
scant photos
random audio bites
same ol’ nudies
same ol’ groovers
now in my palm
it all comes back
in living nightmarish
black and white
and leaden stop motion
the power of that crazy night
that mirthless man
his deadpan crew
guitar at the ready
like an armed 22
pumping out all he knew
sorta kinda
rock steady
a dull shade of blue
but somehow enough
to raise the roof
not that there was one
just the sky and the stars
and a Marshall stack
and a joyless groove
living proof
you don’t have to be
that good
an intense sense of
self
will get you through
with a hompa bompa
Ah-oop-poop-pah-doop.
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