bigdan2276
07-17-2012, 09:19 PM
I got a letter from my boy the other day. The envelope was marked "Handle With Care (Poetry)", and yes, I said letter -- I bet some of you kids out there don't know what that means. Anyways... I thought it was well written so I asked him to email me copy to share with this board, of which I've been reading for years, but today is my first post. Enjoy:
the voices you trust
and I’m letting you know the most soulful b-boy, god love him, is gone— a blip of fuzzy reverb on a dropped microphone. and mike d and adrock, money mark and hurricane are lost on the street corners of brooklyn, wondering who will ever lead them into the night again— who will crouch on a stage in black adidas and shades with rounded shoulders gesticulating into a mic? who will help to create the fire, understand the moment, explain the journey?
adam yauch is out; the gig is over and he has un-strapped his bass, turned down the volume on the amps. he is reflective; humming under his breath, hands on his hips looking over the length of the stage; he thinks, no more 1986— spewing beer at press conferences, knocking holes in the walls, no more playing it up shouting obscenities, snickering for the cameras, watching it all unfold, jumping spasmodically like a man who has lit a match to the vision of what people think he should be.
and there he is over the years, calmly changing, remarkably, hanging back, the pensive one, the visionary, the balance— a common light for outcasts and quiet souls finding their way in the snarling school hallways, and for thugs and punks and roughnecks throwing haymakers in moshpits.
*
I now understand the message, kid; yauch said, listen— check this shit out— he showed us how it would be, about the transitional years, the years before responsibility, how the real years were just a five dollar cab ride away, and he knew it would cost us so much more, shit, those stupid blunted years; the falling down the stairs drunk, waking up fully clothed years hadn’t caught up to us or gotten old, hadn’t taught us, hadn’t changed us. nathaniel hornblower tried to spell it out, didn’t he though? the raspy voice let us know, sayin it’d be different later, sayin the world would eat us up if she could and we’d better have some tolerance, some moderation, some love.
*
twenty years ago we listened to music through newly purchased blaupunkt speakers in your 1983 chevy malibu wagon—the L-train—late at night in the hills above town, people in nearby houses just clueless to the enlightened moments we had; we played check your head in a private cell; we didn’t know one day we’d give anything to be back there, to hear the talk, sip a bottle in the darkness, pass a smoke, laugh until tears cut our eyes; if we could we’d turn up the volume and walk out into the stars and the misty night air, the fog of our future before us, mocking us, calling to our deepest angst; we’d take solace in familiar songs, in voices who know us unlike any; we’d step out blindly into the memory of childhood, unaware that we’d implanted something permanent in our minds.
*
twenty years later you send me a text and I read the news; the b-boys are gone and they aren’t coming back— that same night I watch my son take his first steps, a crooked circle that surely means more to me; I pick him up and hold him. I tell him quietly that he has to listen to his boys; they’ll listen back; they’ll take care of him.
I say, follow the voices you trust, buddy, follow them through the fog and the dark; listen for their words and they will show you the way. and even though they may not always be there, you can follow them just the same. I promise you.
the voices you trust
and I’m letting you know the most soulful b-boy, god love him, is gone— a blip of fuzzy reverb on a dropped microphone. and mike d and adrock, money mark and hurricane are lost on the street corners of brooklyn, wondering who will ever lead them into the night again— who will crouch on a stage in black adidas and shades with rounded shoulders gesticulating into a mic? who will help to create the fire, understand the moment, explain the journey?
adam yauch is out; the gig is over and he has un-strapped his bass, turned down the volume on the amps. he is reflective; humming under his breath, hands on his hips looking over the length of the stage; he thinks, no more 1986— spewing beer at press conferences, knocking holes in the walls, no more playing it up shouting obscenities, snickering for the cameras, watching it all unfold, jumping spasmodically like a man who has lit a match to the vision of what people think he should be.
and there he is over the years, calmly changing, remarkably, hanging back, the pensive one, the visionary, the balance— a common light for outcasts and quiet souls finding their way in the snarling school hallways, and for thugs and punks and roughnecks throwing haymakers in moshpits.
*
I now understand the message, kid; yauch said, listen— check this shit out— he showed us how it would be, about the transitional years, the years before responsibility, how the real years were just a five dollar cab ride away, and he knew it would cost us so much more, shit, those stupid blunted years; the falling down the stairs drunk, waking up fully clothed years hadn’t caught up to us or gotten old, hadn’t taught us, hadn’t changed us. nathaniel hornblower tried to spell it out, didn’t he though? the raspy voice let us know, sayin it’d be different later, sayin the world would eat us up if she could and we’d better have some tolerance, some moderation, some love.
*
twenty years ago we listened to music through newly purchased blaupunkt speakers in your 1983 chevy malibu wagon—the L-train—late at night in the hills above town, people in nearby houses just clueless to the enlightened moments we had; we played check your head in a private cell; we didn’t know one day we’d give anything to be back there, to hear the talk, sip a bottle in the darkness, pass a smoke, laugh until tears cut our eyes; if we could we’d turn up the volume and walk out into the stars and the misty night air, the fog of our future before us, mocking us, calling to our deepest angst; we’d take solace in familiar songs, in voices who know us unlike any; we’d step out blindly into the memory of childhood, unaware that we’d implanted something permanent in our minds.
*
twenty years later you send me a text and I read the news; the b-boys are gone and they aren’t coming back— that same night I watch my son take his first steps, a crooked circle that surely means more to me; I pick him up and hold him. I tell him quietly that he has to listen to his boys; they’ll listen back; they’ll take care of him.
I say, follow the voices you trust, buddy, follow them through the fog and the dark; listen for their words and they will show you the way. and even though they may not always be there, you can follow them just the same. I promise you.