crazy life.
Without her
I’d be a one-man band,
with a played-out sound
and no audience.
The magic
we compose
is endless,
immortal.
We could play
together
for centuries.
If I’m lucky.
And I love
the music
our bodies
make
when we’re dancing.
But there is one thing
about my girlfriend
I don’t understand.
She says
she doesn’t believe
in sex
before marriage,
but she never
wants to get married.
When I ask her, Where is this all going, then?
she likes to
get real close,
eyelash close,
and say things like
Let’s live in the moment, babe
or we don’t need labels,
and then
she kisses me
like we own the world
and nothing else matters.
It’s funny how
going nowhere
feels like it’s
going someplace
fast.
Texts from Chapel
7:37 pm
On your way stop by
Best Buy pls. Headphones broke.
Red or purple. K?
7:47 pm
They finally left. I
hate hiding. Wish my dad
wasn’t so CRAY. He
7:48 pm
thinks all the things
the tabloids say
about your family
7:48 pm
are true. He doesn’t know
you’re different, Blade.
He says
7:48 pm
you’re going to
drag me into sex
and drugs.
7:49 pm
Hurry up and get here.
They’re at Bible study
’til 10 . . .
Leaving in ten minutes
Sorry. Working on a song.
Beats or Bose?
And tell the Reverend I
only did drugs once.
The Show
My father,
Rutherford Morrison,
can’t stand
to be away
from the stage.
He has always craved
the spotlight,
needs it
like a drug,
posing, posturing, profiling
before millions—
an electric prophet, or so he thinks,
capturing concert worshipers
in the vapors
of his breath,
as if his voice
was preparing them
for rapture.
My sister and I
have always lived
under the stage,
beside it,
behind it.
The After-Party
There was always
another party.
More loud music.
More loud groupies.
Booze
and still more groupies.
I was nine.
He grabbed me
and held
a sizzling cig
in front
of my face.
Only it wasn’t a cig.
He blew smoke
circles around me
and laughed.
My boy.
The band uncles got
in on the joke too,
and I stuck my tongue
in a shot glass
full of whiskey,
soaked it up
like a dirty sponge.
I loved making them laugh.
The whiskey hurt
my throat and
stung my eyes.
But the laughs
were epic.
Before I knew it
I was taking my finger
and dragging it
across powdered
sugar that looked
like ant snow trails
on the table.
Rutherford was too busy
kissing his ego
to notice.
I tasted it once,
twice, and
a few more times,
trying to find
that sugar sweet.
But, it wasn’t sweet.
It was salty
bitter
and it coated
my mouth
in numbness.
I woke up
in the ICU
frightened
and embarrassed
by my father,
who sat by
my bedside
crying
in handcuffs.
Hollywood Report
Rutherford Morrison has kept rock alive for twenty-five
years.
His band, The Great Whatever, is credited with
introducing a new flavor of
Hard Rock to America with the release of their triple-
platinum album,
The History of Headaches. Even after an acrimonious
band breakup,
Morrison continued to have an illustrious solo career,
selling thirty million albums worldwide.
His music has lasted the test of time . . . until now.
Eight years ago, he was arrested for reckless
endangerment of his child,
and he hasn’t released an album since.
Most recently he’s managed three DUIs, and a drug
overdose
that almost sent him to a rock-star reunion with
Kurt Cobain and Amy Winehouse.
Rutherford may not have much time left before
he falls flat on 12:00. Midnight can be so cruel.
Who doesn’t feel sorry for his kids,
left answering the hard questions, like
How does it feel
to be the daughter
to be the son
of a fallen rock star?
Who Am I?
I am
the wretched son
of a poor
rich man.
I do not hate
my life.
I am not like
Sebastian Carter,
who found
his father kissing
his girlfriend
and now hates
his life.
My life is, hmmm,
inconvenient.
But
if it weren’t for Chapel . . .
Are You Sure They Aren’t Coming Home?
Chapel and I are about to take flight,
two souls on fire
burning through sacred mounds of
fresh desire.
Our lips are in the process
of becoming
one
in her hammock,
like two blue jays nesting.
Feeding each other
kisses of wonder.
I’m sure, she answers.
Hands of curiosity.
What are you doing?
Kissing you.
Slow down, Blade.
Why?
Woo me.
Woo you?
A song.
Come on, babe, we don’t have time for that.
But we have time for this? she says,
puckering her lips, and
hypnotizing me
with eyes blue
as the deep blue sea.
Those Eyes Will Be the Death of Me
My gravestone will read:
Here lies a young man
who died inside
the gaze of a woman.
I watch the river
in her eyes gallop f
orth
fall into them
dive into them.
She smiles.
Those eyes.
I can’t escape
the depth of them.
The song has ended,
but the melody still rings
from her mouth.
I can’t hear a word.
I’m lost
in these two comets
that move across
my universe.
I remember
the first time
she looked at me
like this.
Two years ago
before he hit
an all-time low,
Rutherford threw
one of his
Hollywood Rocker House Parties
which became Storm’s
pool party
SLASH sweet sixteen
SLASH get-all-the-kids-at-our-school-drunk-so-they-
could-listen-to-Storm’s-mixtape-and-think-it-is-hot
party.
While they dove deep
in shallowness,
I found a quiet corner,
a vintage Rutherford Morrison guitar
took it off the wall
and started playing
American Woman
and any tune
with a hard groove
to soften
the dull.
Minutes
or an hour
went by
before I looked up,
and there she was
sitting
in the chair
across from me,
her legs
with dancer calves
entwined
like twin yellow flowers.
Her skin, amber sun.
And those pretty blue eyes
just watching me
like she cared.
Amazing. Keep playing, she said. Don’t let me interrupt
you. And
then she got up,
sauntered off
glancing over her shoulder,
leaving me
thunderstruck.
Those eyes.
Those blue eyes.
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