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