Saturday, November 15, 2008
Roadie Poet: Stranger
Got home just now.
The start of a month off the road.
I need sleep
Clean clothes
Good food.
In that order.
My key fits in the lock.
Everything inside looks the same:
Shelf for mail
The dent in the bannister from when I kicked it with a steel-toed boot.
Don't ask.
In the living room
In front of the TV
In the recliner I bought Mom with my first tour's pay
Isn't Mom.
It's some guy.
In blue plaid flannel pants.
Black socks.
Brown slippers with no backs.
Not a lot of hair.
Glasses.
I look into the kitchen.
There's Mom's cookbooks
Mom's pots
Mom's teapot.
No Mom.
Just this guy.
"Hey," he says to me.
"You must be RP."
"Who're you?" I say to him.
"Does Mom know you're here?"
He laughs.
Stands up.
Shoves his hand at me.
I stare at it.
Mom shows up then.
Dressed in a flimsy robe.
Surprised to see me.
Her second kid.
Like I'm forgettable.
She gives me food.
Takes my laundry.
Sends me to bed.
In that order.
I don't complain.
I needed all three.
Especially sleep.
I'm awake.
Never thought I'd need earplugs at home.
Maybe
I can find
A tour
That'll keep me busy
For a month.
I don't really need
Sleep
Food
Or clothes.
In any order.
Aww, man! Poor RP; his mom's got a boyfriend! There's more to this saga, so stay tuned. In the meantime, why not check out other friends who've done some Sunday Scribblings?
The start of a month off the road.
I need sleep
Clean clothes
Good food.
In that order.
My key fits in the lock.
Everything inside looks the same:
Shelf for mail
The dent in the bannister from when I kicked it with a steel-toed boot.
Don't ask.
In the living room
In front of the TV
In the recliner I bought Mom with my first tour's pay
Isn't Mom.
It's some guy.
In blue plaid flannel pants.
Black socks.
Brown slippers with no backs.
Not a lot of hair.
Glasses.
I look into the kitchen.
There's Mom's cookbooks
Mom's pots
Mom's teapot.
No Mom.
Just this guy.
"Hey," he says to me.
"You must be RP."
"Who're you?" I say to him.
"Does Mom know you're here?"
He laughs.
Stands up.
Shoves his hand at me.
I stare at it.
Mom shows up then.
Dressed in a flimsy robe.
Surprised to see me.
Her second kid.
Like I'm forgettable.
She gives me food.
Takes my laundry.
Sends me to bed.
In that order.
I don't complain.
I needed all three.
Especially sleep.
I'm awake.
Never thought I'd need earplugs at home.
Maybe
I can find
A tour
That'll keep me busy
For a month.
I don't really need
Sleep
Food
Or clothes.
In any order.
Aww, man! Poor RP; his mom's got a boyfriend! There's more to this saga, so stay tuned. In the meantime, why not check out other friends who've done some Sunday Scribblings?
Labels: poem, Roadie Poet, Sunday Scribblings
Saturday, August 09, 2008
Roadie Poet: Ask
There's a code out here
On the road.
You do your job.
You hang out.
Laugh.
Joke.
Keep it light as long as you can.
You got here 'cause you're good.
You know your shit.
No need to ask for instructions.
Like a robot, you do what you gotta do.
Don't think about how mechanical it gets by tour's end.
Just do.
Think about what you're doing.
Pay attention;
One fuck-up can hurt the stars.
They're worth millions.
You don't hurt them.
No matter how much you want to
'cause they treat you like you're
Subhuman.
And whatever you do,
You never
Ever
Stop and ask them
Anything.
This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is ask. Once again, I had too many ideas to choose from, so don't be surprised if more fiction based around this theme surfaces in the future.
If you're visiting from Scribblings, please leave a comment so I make sure to visit you in return. Thanks for coming by!
If you're new to the Roadie Poet, click on the link in his name right there, and it'll take you to a biography page, and links to his earlier poems.
On the road.
You do your job.
You hang out.
Laugh.
Joke.
Keep it light as long as you can.
You got here 'cause you're good.
You know your shit.
No need to ask for instructions.
Like a robot, you do what you gotta do.
Don't think about how mechanical it gets by tour's end.
Just do.
Think about what you're doing.
Pay attention;
One fuck-up can hurt the stars.
They're worth millions.
You don't hurt them.
No matter how much you want to
'cause they treat you like you're
Subhuman.
And whatever you do,
You never
Ever
Stop and ask them
Anything.
This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is ask. Once again, I had too many ideas to choose from, so don't be surprised if more fiction based around this theme surfaces in the future.
If you're visiting from Scribblings, please leave a comment so I make sure to visit you in return. Thanks for coming by!
If you're new to the Roadie Poet, click on the link in his name right there, and it'll take you to a biography page, and links to his earlier poems.
Labels: poem, Roadie Poet, Sunday Scribblings
Monday, May 26, 2008
Roadie Poet: Returns
Don't realize it until we get inside.
Been here before.
Recognize the loading dock,
The room the crew showers in,
The way things look from the stage.
Out into darkness --
For now.
It'll get lit up later.
Hambone remembers this place, too.
We talk at dinner.
Bands we've been here with
Tours we've done
Crew we went with.
More sits and listens.
Tells me later
She can't wait until she's got these lists to make
When she's been around more.
I gotta tell her
Coming back to a familiar place
It feels good
But not as good
As home.
I'm not sure about this ending. Might be too cliched, so let me know what you think.
If you're new to Roadie Poet, welcome! If you've missed him, or want to revisit old poetry from our favorite crew member, click here. That'll take you to his profile page. All his poems are listed at the bottom of the page. Happy catching up!
Been here before.
Recognize the loading dock,
The room the crew showers in,
The way things look from the stage.
Out into darkness --
For now.
It'll get lit up later.
Hambone remembers this place, too.
We talk at dinner.
Bands we've been here with
Tours we've done
Crew we went with.
More sits and listens.
Tells me later
She can't wait until she's got these lists to make
When she's been around more.
I gotta tell her
Coming back to a familiar place
It feels good
But not as good
As home.
I'm not sure about this ending. Might be too cliched, so let me know what you think.
If you're new to Roadie Poet, welcome! If you've missed him, or want to revisit old poetry from our favorite crew member, click here. That'll take you to his profile page. All his poems are listed at the bottom of the page. Happy catching up!
Labels: poem, Poetry Train, Roadie Poet, Writer's Island
Monday, April 14, 2008
Roadie Poet: Pyro
New tour.
Big one.
Stadiums.
Shows this big,
They're spectacles,
Not simple shows.
Vid screens,
Extra sound,
Pyro.
Band's gotta rehearse extra
So they don't step in a flashpot.
Burned to a crisp
By their own show.
Spectacle.
Whatever.
Extra rehearsal for them means
Hotel rooms for us.
A little bit easier
Before the grind begins.
Time to bum around.
Have some fun.
But watch
For those flashpots.
So we don't step in 'em.
And get
Burned
To
A
Crisp.
Big one.
Stadiums.
Shows this big,
They're spectacles,
Not simple shows.
Vid screens,
Extra sound,
Pyro.
Band's gotta rehearse extra
So they don't step in a flashpot.
Burned to a crisp
By their own show.
Spectacle.
Whatever.
Extra rehearsal for them means
Hotel rooms for us.
A little bit easier
Before the grind begins.
Time to bum around.
Have some fun.
But watch
For those flashpots.
So we don't step in 'em.
And get
Burned
To
A
Crisp.
Labels: poem, Poetry Train, Roadie Poet, touring
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Thursday Thirteen #74 -- Roadie Poet
As I said over the weekend, the winds are starting to bring some changes around here. While I'm waiting to evaluate what those changes are (and if I find them acceptable; so nice to feel in control of SOMEthing!), I've been playing with my characters.
I've been trying to come up with something for a Flash Fiction Carnival I'd like to take part in. I've got some things in mind -- I hope they correspond to this weekend's writing prompts! -- but somehow, inspiration for some fiction came in the guise of Roadie Poet. Not that RP is going to write fiction anytime soon.
Anyway, it dawns on me that many of you who hang around here on Thursdays haven't met the Roadie Poet yet; he tends to come out for the Poetry Train.
So... Meet Roadie Poet.
Get the Thursday Thirteen code here!
The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will try to link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
View More Thursday Thirteen Participants
I've been trying to come up with something for a Flash Fiction Carnival I'd like to take part in. I've got some things in mind -- I hope they correspond to this weekend's writing prompts! -- but somehow, inspiration for some fiction came in the guise of Roadie Poet. Not that RP is going to write fiction anytime soon.
Anyway, it dawns on me that many of you who hang around here on Thursdays haven't met the Roadie Poet yet; he tends to come out for the Poetry Train.
So... Meet Roadie Poet.
 |
1. His poetry is often the only poems many of my groupies read. 2. He's definitely a male. For a while there, I wasn't certain. My groupies helped me figure it out. 3. I adore this guy. Read on and see what you've been missing. 4. He doesn't have much of a life off the road. He lives and breathes roadie. 5. Even over the holidays. 6. Even when the hours are long. 7. When he's not on the road, he lives at home. 8. He's got a best friend named Hambone. 9. And a girl named Maureen, who he calls More. 10. She's often working when he's free. 11. But they find ways. 12. He can party hard. 13. But he sleeps better on the bus. |
The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will try to link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
View More Thursday Thirteen Participants
Labels: meme, Roadie Poet, Thursday Thirteen
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Susan's Inside Writing: Inside Roadie Poet's Rhythm
The responses I've gotten to this week's Roadie Poet entry surprised me. I never would have expected you guys to read the poem as a song. Thank you! That's high praise and I've got much-needed warm fuzzies from what you had to say, especially about that last stanza.
I wanted to pause and talk about where it came from, because to me, the story behind it is sorta cool.
Whenever Roadie Poet tugs on my consciousness and tells me he's got something to say, I always picture him like my friend Toby, who does his share of roadie work, both on and off the road. He works full-time for a band and gets a lot more interaction with the band than RP does. Toby also has the most incredible speaking voice; I used to love to hear him talk. (and like most men in my life, his e-mails usually consist of a word or two but a phone conversation can last an hour, which is a good thing when you're speaking with someone who's got a great voice.)
But there's another component to RP, and that's a woman I used to know when I worked in radio. She worked at Metal Blade Records, as a rep to radio stations like mine; I spent a week with her when I was weighing a job offer from Roadrunner Records. Lori's cool people.
She left the relatively safe world of record labels and went on a wild ride, eventually winding up as a roadie. I believe she's still there, working for Sesame Street Live, last I heard.
Her name came back up last week, when I had #2 at dance classes. The ballet instructor was talking about how she'd gone to see Sesame Street Live when it was here and how she'd cried as she sat there and watched. It turned out that she'd been part of the company.
A-ha! I thought. I knew there was something about this woman that I had been keying into since I'd met her this year, and that something is our love of the touring life. We've both got it in our blood.
She gave it up to have a more stable life. I gave it up because I knew, long-term, I could never sustain it. Not if I wanted to be a writer, too -- which is the reason I turned down those job offers at record labels. Being a writer is something I need to be. Yet my passion for music is also something I can't deny.
Thus, ShapeShifter. And Deadly Metal Hatchet, and Chelle LaFleur, Kermit Ladd, and Roadie Poet.
And, thus, this week's Roadie Poet.
I wanted to pause and talk about where it came from, because to me, the story behind it is sorta cool.
Whenever Roadie Poet tugs on my consciousness and tells me he's got something to say, I always picture him like my friend Toby, who does his share of roadie work, both on and off the road. He works full-time for a band and gets a lot more interaction with the band than RP does. Toby also has the most incredible speaking voice; I used to love to hear him talk. (and like most men in my life, his e-mails usually consist of a word or two but a phone conversation can last an hour, which is a good thing when you're speaking with someone who's got a great voice.)
But there's another component to RP, and that's a woman I used to know when I worked in radio. She worked at Metal Blade Records, as a rep to radio stations like mine; I spent a week with her when I was weighing a job offer from Roadrunner Records. Lori's cool people.
She left the relatively safe world of record labels and went on a wild ride, eventually winding up as a roadie. I believe she's still there, working for Sesame Street Live, last I heard.
Her name came back up last week, when I had #2 at dance classes. The ballet instructor was talking about how she'd gone to see Sesame Street Live when it was here and how she'd cried as she sat there and watched. It turned out that she'd been part of the company.
A-ha! I thought. I knew there was something about this woman that I had been keying into since I'd met her this year, and that something is our love of the touring life. We've both got it in our blood.
She gave it up to have a more stable life. I gave it up because I knew, long-term, I could never sustain it. Not if I wanted to be a writer, too -- which is the reason I turned down those job offers at record labels. Being a writer is something I need to be. Yet my passion for music is also something I can't deny.
Thus, ShapeShifter. And Deadly Metal Hatchet, and Chelle LaFleur, Kermit Ladd, and Roadie Poet.
And, thus, this week's Roadie Poet.
Labels: Roadie Poet, Susan's Inside Writing, writing process
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Roadie Poet: Rhythm of the Road
Tour's in full swing.
No clue where we are.
One city, another
All look the same.
Inside.
Days pick up a rhythm
Bus moves with one
Rhythm drives you up the ladder
Takes you back down
Across the stage.
No clue what the sun looks like
Or if there's snow on the ground.
Who cares?
Days move with a rhythm.
Set up
Show
Tear down
Hit the road.
This is when a roadie learns
What's in his blood.
If the road is there or not.
If his blood moves
With
The rhythm of the road.
Don't forget to take a ride on the Poetry Train! Grab yourself a car while you're at it, too. The only rule is that there are no rules, so join in, why don'tcha?
No clue where we are.
One city, another
All look the same.
Inside.
Days pick up a rhythm
Bus moves with one
Rhythm drives you up the ladder
Takes you back down
Across the stage.
No clue what the sun looks like
Or if there's snow on the ground.
Who cares?
Days move with a rhythm.
Set up
Show
Tear down
Hit the road.
This is when a roadie learns
What's in his blood.
If the road is there or not.
If his blood moves
With
The rhythm of the road.
Don't forget to take a ride on the Poetry Train! Grab yourself a car while you're at it, too. The only rule is that there are no rules, so join in, why don'tcha?
Labels: Poetry Train, Roadie Poet, touring
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Roadie Poet: Musketeers of the Road
Christmas break.
Two days in a hotel.
Little box of a room.
It's a room.
Hambone and me, we don't complain.
We know better.
More's staying with us, too.
Tour's happy about that.
Saves 'em the cost of her room.
Hambone pretends to sleep.
We turn the TV on for noise.
Try to be quiet.
None of it works.
Tour rented out a room
For a crew Christmas dinner.
A bigger box of a room
But at least we're not on our own
Since we can't be home.
Me and Hambone and More, we're glad of that rented box of a room.
We're a team now,
Musketeers of the road.
It'll be hard to find tours like this
Until word gets out about us.
But so what.
Right now's what matters.
Best Christmas present we could hope for.
Me, Hambone, and More.
Musketeers of the Road.
Two days in a hotel.
Little box of a room.
It's a room.
Hambone and me, we don't complain.
We know better.
More's staying with us, too.
Tour's happy about that.
Saves 'em the cost of her room.
Hambone pretends to sleep.
We turn the TV on for noise.
Try to be quiet.
None of it works.
Tour rented out a room
For a crew Christmas dinner.
A bigger box of a room
But at least we're not on our own
Since we can't be home.
Me and Hambone and More, we're glad of that rented box of a room.
We're a team now,
Musketeers of the road.
It'll be hard to find tours like this
Until word gets out about us.
But so what.
Right now's what matters.
Best Christmas present we could hope for.
Me, Hambone, and More.
Musketeers of the Road.
Labels: poem, Poetry Train, Roadie Poet, touring
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Roadie Poet: Floor
Afternoon.
I'm on the floor.
Hambone's snoring in the bed.
Bed.
Did you miss that part?
Looks like I did.
I'm on the floor.
Hungover.
On the floor.
Hambone's got the bed.
More's got the other one.
I've got the empties from last night's party.
There's a lot of 'em.
Two beds.
Three peeps.
One's my girl.
Explains why we're naked.
But not
Why
I'm
On
The
Floor.
Want more Roadie Poet? Click on his name and whoosh, you'll be visiting his character sketch page, where you can link to more adventures. And for more poetry and other cool self-expression, check out Rhian's Poetry Train -- and join the party!
I'm on the floor.
Hambone's snoring in the bed.
Bed.
Did you miss that part?
Looks like I did.
I'm on the floor.
Hungover.
On the floor.
Hambone's got the bed.
More's got the other one.
I've got the empties from last night's party.
There's a lot of 'em.
Two beds.
Three peeps.
One's my girl.
Explains why we're naked.
But not
Why
I'm
On
The
Floor.
Want more Roadie Poet? Click on his name and whoosh, you'll be visiting his character sketch page, where you can link to more adventures. And for more poetry and other cool self-expression, check out Rhian's Poetry Train -- and join the party!
Labels: poem, Poetry Train, Roadie Poet
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Roadie Poet: More
Got a girl.
Name's Maureen.
Guys call her Mo.
Friends call her Reenie. Or Reen.
I call her More.
Crew don't get hotels,
Just a shower at the site.
I'm on Bus 1.
She's on 7.
Anyways,
Nothing's private on a bus.
Time's hard to come by.
She's busy around the show.
That's my rest.
I tried to help her out some.
Band showed me the door.
Told me to be a good crew boy
And stop sniffing around their girls.
So me and More
We skipped dinner
Snuck off
Found a spot behind some empty cases.
She's a great kisser.
Hambone saved me dinner.
But I want More.
Yep, another melding of the Weekend Wordsmith and the Poetry Train. I don't know about you guys, but I dig the Roadie Poet. And as you can clearly tell, he's now got a definitive gender.
Name's Maureen.
Guys call her Mo.
Friends call her Reenie. Or Reen.
I call her More.
Crew don't get hotels,
Just a shower at the site.
I'm on Bus 1.
She's on 7.
Anyways,
Nothing's private on a bus.
Time's hard to come by.
She's busy around the show.
That's my rest.
I tried to help her out some.
Band showed me the door.
Told me to be a good crew boy
And stop sniffing around their girls.
So me and More
We skipped dinner
Snuck off
Found a spot behind some empty cases.
She's a great kisser.
Hambone saved me dinner.
But I want More.
Yep, another melding of the Weekend Wordsmith and the Poetry Train. I don't know about you guys, but I dig the Roadie Poet. And as you can clearly tell, he's now got a definitive gender.
Labels: poem, Poetry Train, Roadie Poet, Weekend Wordsmith
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Monday Poetry Train: Wearing Pink
I'm taking a break from drawing names and matching them up with prizes from the Summer's Hidden Treasures contest. A bit too much weekend put me a bit behind schedule, so stay tuned for news of the winners. In the meantime, here's a visit with our Roadie Poet.
Wearing Pink
New girl at the sound board.
She's in pink.
Pink.
Hambone says she's new.
I say she's someone's girl.
'cause crew,
We know
you don't wear pink.
Black's the roadie's color
Maybe white,
If it's a shirt for the local crew
Who'll be invisible by showtime.
Maybe white.
Maybe.
Near showtime,
Hambone chases me down.
I'm gaffing the last of the stage.
Shoulda been done hours ago.
Fucking local crew.
Hambone points her out.
Not in pink no more.
Wearing black.
Sitting at the sound board.
She bounces,
All excited like,
And Hambone hands me twenty.
Sure enough,
Come morning,
Another girl's in her spot.
This one's
Wearing pink, too.
Wearing Pink
New girl at the sound board.
She's in pink.
Pink.
Hambone says she's new.
I say she's someone's girl.
'cause crew,
We know
you don't wear pink.
Black's the roadie's color
Maybe white,
If it's a shirt for the local crew
Who'll be invisible by showtime.
Maybe white.
Maybe.
Near showtime,
Hambone chases me down.
I'm gaffing the last of the stage.
Shoulda been done hours ago.
Fucking local crew.
Hambone points her out.
Not in pink no more.
Wearing black.
Sitting at the sound board.
She bounces,
All excited like,
And Hambone hands me twenty.
Sure enough,
Come morning,
Another girl's in her spot.
This one's
Wearing pink, too.
Labels: poem, Poetry Train, Roadie Poet, touring
Sunday, July 08, 2007
Monday Poetry Train: Home
By popular demand, Roadie Poet returns:
Home.
It's hard to sleep.
The bed's still.
Doesn't vibrate like the bus does
There's no motor noise
Snoring
Farting
Sleeping going on
Behind vinyl curtains
That hide faces
Bodies
Friends
But nothing more.
Home
is Mom's place
The apartment where we've lived
Since I was a kid.
My cross-country trophies are here
And my FBLA shit
From the days
when Mom hoped
I'd be something more
Than just a roadie.
My bag's still packed
I'm ready to go
As soon as that call comes.
They said any day.
Go home.
Wait.
A week, at most.
Two days, more likely.
And then I can have a new bunk
Hopefully on the top
Middle's okay.
Bottom sucks.
My bed'll vibrate
No quarter needed
And once again,
I'll sleep like a baby.
Ring,
Phone.
Ring.
Here is Roadie Poet's debut, in case you missed it.
Hope you're all reading for the Summer's Hidden Treasures Contest, and that those of you nutty enough to Sweat for Seven are doing nicely. Me, I'm working on some edits that ought to lead to no good...
Home.
It's hard to sleep.
The bed's still.
Doesn't vibrate like the bus does
There's no motor noise
Snoring
Farting
Sleeping going on
Behind vinyl curtains
That hide faces
Bodies
Friends
But nothing more.
Home
is Mom's place
The apartment where we've lived
Since I was a kid.
My cross-country trophies are here
And my FBLA shit
From the days
when Mom hoped
I'd be something more
Than just a roadie.
My bag's still packed
I'm ready to go
As soon as that call comes.
They said any day.
Go home.
Wait.
A week, at most.
Two days, more likely.
And then I can have a new bunk
Hopefully on the top
Middle's okay.
Bottom sucks.
My bed'll vibrate
No quarter needed
And once again,
I'll sleep like a baby.
Ring,
Phone.
Ring.
Here is Roadie Poet's debut, in case you missed it.
Hope you're all reading for the Summer's Hidden Treasures Contest, and that those of you nutty enough to Sweat for Seven are doing nicely. Me, I'm working on some edits that ought to lead to no good...
Labels: home, poem, Poetry Train, Roadie Poet
Monday, June 11, 2007
Poetry Train: Nine PM
I think this one is still a work-in-progress; we shall see. Once again, feel free to post today and jump on Rhian's poetry train. There are few cooler than Rhian.
Nine PM
Nine PM
Half-hour to the headliner.
I walk on the stage.
Opener's finished.
Crowd's worked up.
I been here since 6AM
I'll be here another four hours or so.
But Nine PM
That's my break.
My nightly laugh.
The cattle cheer when they see me.
The place comes alive.
The air snaps.
Like I'm the star,
Not just some roadie
With a job to do.
Most guys,
It'd go to their heads.
They'd get a few girls
hand out promises they couldn't keep --
or wouldn't.
Either way, it's the same thing.
Guy gets laid.
Girl goes home.
Alone.
Right now, I got a job to do.
Walk across the stage.
Make sure everything's plugged in
Gaffed down
Like it's supposed to be.
Leave again.
It's simple like that.
Good.
Easy.
After the day I just had, I need that.
And those yelling fans
Wake me up real good.
Bronx cheer or real,
Don't make no difference to me.
They can scream until they can't no more.
Won't bring the band out any faster.
Nine-thirty's their time.
Nine's mine.
Nine PM
Nine PM
Half-hour to the headliner.
I walk on the stage.
Opener's finished.
Crowd's worked up.
I been here since 6AM
I'll be here another four hours or so.
But Nine PM
That's my break.
My nightly laugh.
The cattle cheer when they see me.
The place comes alive.
The air snaps.
Like I'm the star,
Not just some roadie
With a job to do.
Most guys,
It'd go to their heads.
They'd get a few girls
hand out promises they couldn't keep --
or wouldn't.
Either way, it's the same thing.
Guy gets laid.
Girl goes home.
Alone.
Right now, I got a job to do.
Walk across the stage.
Make sure everything's plugged in
Gaffed down
Like it's supposed to be.
Leave again.
It's simple like that.
Good.
Easy.
After the day I just had, I need that.
And those yelling fans
Wake me up real good.
Bronx cheer or real,
Don't make no difference to me.
They can scream until they can't no more.
Won't bring the band out any faster.
Nine-thirty's their time.
Nine's mine.
Labels: poem, Poetry Train, Roadie Poet, touring
