that I’m to play in less than nine hours in front of three thousand people, the song
that I’ve decided to dedicate to my mom, Uncle Stevie plays some Lenny for inspiration, then explains that most people only know that Lenny wrote it about his mother, but no one knows that she was an actress on a sitcom called The Jeffersons or that one of his bandmates actually played Heineken bottles on the track, which would be a pretty cool story if I hadn’t heard him tell it
a million times.
My dad
jets for the pool and a cig
because
the song
makes him
think
of her.
The song’s a hit! Went for coffee. Break a leg, killer!
I doze off
a few hours later
and wake up
to Rutherford’s red Maserati
making skid marks
down our driveway
and a note
on my mirror.
Graduation Day
From the stage
I see Chapel
blow me a kiss.
I get so lost
in her deep blues
I almost don’t hear
Principal Campbell
introduce
Our salutatorian,
Blade Morrison.
Climbing the Steps to Speak
I throw
my guitar
over my
shoulder and
walk to
center stage
and start
strumming to
loud applause
but I
never get
to sing
because
I realize
they’re not
clapping
for me.
On the biggest stage of my life
in the middle of the most important thing I’ve ever done a woman wearing a black helmet, matching bikini, and nothing else rides a red Harley onto the football field with a man
in the same outfit holding a guitar high above his head screaming
I LOVE ROCK ‘N’ ROLL!
I stare in disbelief and shame
at Chapel
at Principal Campbell at the graduating class egging him on with cheers
and roars
even after
the bike slams into the front of the stage and he gets up steps on
the biker woman then stumbles his way
up the steps to the mic
to me.
Rock and Roll, Blade, my father whispers hugging me
with breath
that smells like the devil’s mouthwash.
My father
has a map
on his body that tells you everything you don’t want to know about him.
A sun on his right shoulder.
A storm cloud with a bolt of lightning on his left.
A blade running down the back of his neck.
Over his heart: STILL HERE.
But, we’re not. Still. Here.
This is the end of the road.
While he bares his wretched self in front of the world I walk off stage to the sound
of his vomiting and cell phones clicking.
I’m not even mad.
I’m just done.
Being here.
Being a Morrison.
Texts from Chapel after Graduation
9:08 pm
I’m sorry I couldn’t be there
to comfort you.
9:08 pm
Parents.
Grandparents.
Graduation dinner.
9:09 pm
My parents made a point NOT to talk about
you or what happened.
9:09 pm
I was sad and on
the verge of tears
the whole time at dinner.
9:10 pm
I kept thinking
about you and how
embarrassed you must be.
9:10 pm
I bet your song
was DOPE though.
Play it for me later?
Hollywood Report
Rock & Roll Royalty has proven yet again that no one knows how to screw up bigger and better than Rutherford Morrison.
Just yesterday, he crashed his son’s graduation ceremony, literally,
drunk driving into the stage
moments before Blade Morrison was to deliver the commencement address. Thankfully, no one was injured,
except the already damaged ego and reputation of his only son.
Rumor has it that Rutherford had been sober for a short period of time, nine days, but who’s counting.
According to reports, he’s headed back to rehab, for the ninth time in as many years, but again who’s counting?
As much as we all still love his music, if rehab doesn’t work, jail or death might be the only fix.
Track 2: When the Lights Go Out
ROCKERS: THE BLACK KEYS / ALBUM: RUBBER FACTORY / LABEL: BLACK POSSUM RECORDS / RECORDING DATE: JANUARY–MAY, 2004 / STUDIO: AN ABANDONED TIRE MANUFACTURING FACTORY IN AKRON, OHIO
I try reading it doesn’t help I try strumming it doesn’t help I try eating it doesn’t help So I just lay here with the lights out listening to The Black Keys.
Staring into the desolation of my brokenness.
Eventually falling into a sea
of dreams
drowning
in the dark deep beneath the place
where dreams have no rules.
Dream Variation: Spin a Song
In the dining room Rutherford
sits
at the opposite end of the Italian marble table.
(Even our dreams are excess.) Atop the table
is a feast
of desserts—my favorites: red velvet Oreos red velvet cupcakes red everything—including a garden of red roses (each with the initial BU
tattooed on them).
Bumpy Umbrella, Rutherford says matter-of-factly, with the sincerest grin aimed at my mother as she swaggers into the room
to the beat
of “All About that Bass”
with a knife
the size of a machete.
She slices a cookie into a millions pieces.
(And doesn’t say a word.) Belly Ulcer, he adds and all of a sudden I feel like
I’ve eaten
every cupcake and cookie in the room
and now I’m gonna throw up.
(She is still silent, slicing.) I turn ashen
as each Oreo crumb turns into
a spider
and crawls
off the table.
Buckle Up, Rutherford says, laughing.
(The dining room is now a hallway or an open field, I can’t tell.)
He’s gone,
his laughter
now morphed into a song
with an infectious rhythm of blues
that’s becomes the soundtrack to a movie
with a chase scene starring yours truly and a big, red spider with a dreadful face gunning straight for me.
(It looks familiar, but I can’t tell.) Run, she whispers and I do
before it bites me or worse.
I run I run away
I run away, fast, I run away, fast, toward—
Hovering
BLADE! BLADE! WAKE UP!
I’m awake. I’M AWAKE. What are you doing, Storm?
Stop shaking me.
Geesh, you’re drenched. Wet dream, huh?
GET AWAY! What time is it?
It’s half past time to get up and stop crying over spoiled milk.
Spilt milk!
Whatever, open these windows and stop whining. He messed up, get over it.
Easy for you to say, he didn’t embarrass you in front of the world.
Uh, yeah he did. I was right there too. It was bad. But it’s not the end of the world.
It’s not the end of your world, Storm. You didn’t get ruined.
He’s our father, for better or for worse.
Why are you so forgiving?
Why are you not? It’s a disease. He needs help.
Yeah, well, tell him that when he gets back from whatever hellhole he’s in.
He’s back.
Great. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need some privacy.
Next time, knock.
Next time, don’t scream, DON’T KILL ME, PLEASE!
What are you talking about? It was a nightmare.
What was it—fire, a cliff, a gun to the head?
It was nothing.
Still, I wanna know.
It’s the same dream I’ve been having, Storm, but this time, Mom was in it.
Well, now I’m intrigued, little brother.
It was ridiculous.
Get on with it, this room smells like sautéed cat pee.
. . . .
Texts from Chapel
11:45 am
I couldn’t stop