When I was a kid, I was down in the skids

At the top of the hill, occasionally the book mobile

Sometimes we drove, sometimes we walked

So excited, I couldn’t even talk

Books galore. Well, at least, covering the shelves

I’d find my favorites, maybe a new one, take them home

Stories about dragons, sometimes elves

But books weren’t the only thing in my zone

Also records. LP’s. Vinyl masterpieces. 12” squares.

I remember Alabama, and Kenny Rogers.

I didn’t know Bowie yet, but sure he was there.

I’d bring them home; temporary additions to the usual fare.

Alabama was an early favorite. Something about grandparents?

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Mountain music for the sole.

I set up coffee cans and pencils.

For a week I would be the drummer,

For a week I couldn’t be told

To stop making so much noise

So much music

And now there’s some hip hop

Rapping, cursing, bitches and fucking

Drugs and guns

And bullshit pop stars.

Boy bands who dance and drive fancy cars.

And those days seem far away.

I can hardly remember.

The Folgers drums

While Kenny Rogers hums something about a lady

I didn’t know anything. Just how I felt.

Those chords and me and my pencils.

I could feel the beat.

I could express what I felt

From my feet to my head

Something about rhythm

And ideas

And where did I go wrong?

Where did I turn, why didn’t I learn?

Something in my DNA

Something in my skin

Something in my heart

Just wanted to be one of them

One of the music makers

But lovers. Are special.

Soulmates are unique.

You can’t trade them in a market.

Just the spark it takes to light that fire

And now, decades. Later and later.

The past long gone. Nearly forgotten, except for the Rats.

A seasonal shit in my ears as I try to relive

Someone kill the fucking DJ

He ruins the feels.

He dictates the crap, Burn his laptop

Burn his speakers. Burn his digital bits

Cut off his wireless cords

Smack in the face and let him know

I don’t have time for this

When Cool seems to be a facet of obscurity

Never heard of him, so underground

Made by a kid who subverts subversion

He’s buried in a cloud

I wonder if he could even play me

Some mountain music

Like grandma use to play

I don’t remember

I think she liked Elvis

But it wasn’t just a beat and a bass and words that rhymed

It was something about love

Something about pride

A referendum on social justice, before it was a derogatory term

Maybe I will never learn