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