Thursday, January 10, 2008

Who cares about our band?

I have been trying to get the members together for a practice
since last February, when it was decided over India Pale Ale that we should begin.
We were inspired by our collaboration on the tavern countertop,
by the way T-Bone could set up an almost click-track effect
by tapping the base of her hand on the tabletop,
by the way Possum managed the orchestral arrangements,
by T’s appearance in publications of note, which seemed to suggest
he could parlay this wordsmithery into some raw fuckin’ lyrics.
I would do whatever, play a little tambourine, a little kazoo,
keep things unexpected with the addition of marimba.
But despite that one practice in Leon’s basement,
and the sweet poster Leon made for our show that never materialized,
we never recorded any tracks, we slouched toward each other
with too little interest on that March practice evening,
and found that without beer our band was a failure.
Our imaginations had been too large pants
our shriveled voices and kazoos could not fill.


T-bone said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
T-bone said...

I think I want to change the title again...

The Band, Totally Sub-primed Dude

In defense of the green couch,
T-bone is listless these days
with after-surgery codeine. On this island,
with its balled-up tissues and smelly inhabitant,
there could be music in North Carolina,
a playbook keeping hens warm in Ohio,
or in Milford, a Kazoo in a padded velvet-lined box.
For any amount of India Pale Ale
wild boars can be found at any time
tuning tusks by the light of nag champa
as they wait for March to roll around and the buzz to kick in.

T-bone said...

And who can count on Leon anyway?

Leon's basement doubles as a roller rink.