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Category: Music

POEM: The Waldo & Lobby Show

The Waldo & Lobby Show

We pulled random CDs and records off the shelves,
knowing some of the bands but not all.
“Dorina” by Dada.
“Enid” by Barenaked Ladies.
“Everyday I Write The Book” by Elvis Costello.
Lenny Bruce’s “Captain Whackencracker” sketch,
found on an old LP in the back room,
and played during National Smoke Out Day
because it was pro-smoking and we were edgy teens
with control over the airwaves.
There was a payphone down in the courtyard.
The number was written on the studio wall,
so we’d call it during our show and ask random questions
to whichever passing student picked it up.
Sometimes we’d give out prizes. Some of them were even real.
We made an ad for our show that was nothing but explosions
with the name of the show at the end.
I said “airwaves” earlier but actually the station was cable-only.
You could listen to it in your dorm if you hooked up your receiver
to the college’s cable system, but our motto was:
“You can’t get us in your car.”
The station was called The Bear.
We were Waldo & Lobby.
And from the summer of 1992 until the spring of 1993,
we were invincible.

/ / /

14 August 2023
Charlottesville VA

This is poem 24 in a series called 50 Days Till 50 Years. I’m writing a poem a day between now and my 50th birthday. I’m going to try to focus on memories of my past, and the people who inhabited it.

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POEM: Coltrane

Coltrane

For my birthday one year
you bought me a mounted poster
of John Coltrane.
It hung in our house.
Then it hung in my apartment.
Then when my new partner and I
moved to Tucson
(coincidentally where you and I met),
it hung in the spare bedroom.
I looked at it often when I started sleeping
in that bedroom.
When I left I gave it to friends.
As far as I know, they still have it.

/ / /

12 August 2023
on a train in central VA

This is poem 22 in a series called 50 Days Till 50 Years. I’m writing a poem a day between now and my 50th birthday. I’m going to try to focus on memories of my past, and the people who inhabited it.

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POEM: Fair Warning

Fair Warning

Eyelashes. The stoic. Fuzz. Fedora. Specs. Curls.
The massive round house belonged to a friend’s girlfriend’s parents.
I’d never met them. I barely knew her, for that matter.
The band made the weird curved windows shake
with “Abacab” and “Money” and “Subdivisions.”
Impossibly cool in this suburb of a suburb.
People were making out in the billiard room,
making out in the hot tub out back,
making out on any reasonably flat surface.
The heck with that.
Sex is fleeting, prog rock is forever.

/ / /

9 August 2023
Charlottesville VA

This is poem 19 in a series called 50 Days Till 50 Years. I’m writing a poem a day between now and my 50th birthday. I’m going to try to focus on memories of my past, and the people who inhabited it.

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POEM: For KB

For KB

August 1987, in the parking lot outside Canandaigua Academy.
That sounds posh but it wasn’t.
It was the summer before my freshman year.
I was waiting for marching band practice to begin.
I had just learned that I was going to be playing saxophone;
an instrument I’d never even held, let alone played.
A small group of guys were standing off to one side.
One of them was dividing up the drum machine parts
from the beginning of “Mama” by Genesis.
Each person was given one to sing.
I had never heard the song.
It’s quite possible I’d never heard of Genesis.
I wandered closer. He gave me a part.
Maybe the hi hat.

July 2023, on a bench in Canandaigua.
I don’t live there anymore and neither does he.
We’re sitting outside the old music store,
telling stories about days gone by.
His wife is there, his teenage child is back at his parents’ place.
One of my boys is working in DC before his senior year of college,
the other is working in PA before his senior year of high school.
Neither of my kids joined the marching band.
His kid plays cello, so the odds don’t seem good there, either.
We both still listen to Genesis, though maybe not as often as we used to.

/ / /

27 July 2023
Charlottesville VA

This is poem #6 in a new series, 50 Days Till 50 Years. I’m writing a poem a day between now and my 50th birthday. I’m going to try to focus on memories of my past, and the people who inhabited it.

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POEM: Roll To Me

Roll To Me

We had the three networks and PBS and UHF
and the nearest music store was 45 minutes away.
The late shows had musical guests, so once we got a VCR
I started taping the bands I liked, or the bands I wanted to like.
10,000 Maniacs & Del Amitri & Black 47 &
Go West & Blues Traveler & & &.
The tracking was bad on the tape and the reception
had never been good to begin with, but I watched those songs
again and again until the artists were no longer even visible,
and then I just listened, until even the sound went.
I backed into a lot of music in those days.
It wasn’t about searching. It was about chancing upon;
accidentally getting a copy of On The Corner before
ever even hearing Kind Of Blue. Most of my music
was on records from my grandpa or dubbed cassettes
of things in my friends’ collections. In the mid-80s
I went to the tape shop in the mall and bought the first music
I’d ever paid for with my own money: Chuck Mangione’s
An Evening Of Magic — Live At The Hollywood Bowl.
It was a double cassette. A thick brick of brilliance.
When I learned to drive, I always wanted to borrow the Escort
because it had a tape deck. The Soul Cages & Signals &
Seconds Out & Bring On The Night & Brain Salad Surgery &
Running In The Family & Love Over Gold & The Final Cut,
all blasting out in the Ontario County night.
When it snowed, I’d put on a tape of the Star Wars soundtrack
and drive the deserted back roads with the brights on —
the poor kid’s hyperspace.

/ / /

26 July 2023
Charlottesville VA

This is poem #5 in a new series, 50 Days Till 50 Years. I’m writing a poem a day between now and my 50th birthday. I’m going to try to focus on memories of my past, and the people who inhabited it.

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poem: (untitled)

the trumpet player
leans in and whispers
into my ear
a poem about death

/ / /

18 May 2023
Charlottesville VA

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haibun: 22 April 2023

As the storm starts I press play on the Dave Brubeck album and think of my grandpa. When I was a kid he had a record by the Jack Stewart Quartet, playing Brubeck tunes. They were a band from the Berkshires, where he and I are also from. Half the album was recorded live at a private girls’ school, the other half … I can’t quite recall. Long before I heard the Brubeck originals, I heard these local reproductions, which had the odd effect of making Brubeck seem like the copycat.

thunder drowns the piano
rain on the glass like snares
turntable memories of spring

/ / /

22 April 2023
Charlottesville VA

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POEM: Suss

Suss

Back in the rocker,
rocking,
literally and meta-
phorically.

Thankful,
in my way,
to be alive.
Sure.

There’s the wolf,
now howling,
now skipping light-
ly

over the diamonds
on the water.
Makes the whole
pressurized coal thing

feel a bit suss,
I’ll admit.
I’ll huff and puff
or just chew edibles.

That line was
for the kids.
I’m all the way
with Ian MacKaye.

I was driving past the zoo
when I heard the news.
I didn’t care then.
I would have cared now.

/ / /

20 April 2023
Charlottesville VA

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POEM: 23

23

This is a poem
inspired by an album
inspired by twenty-three paintings.

This is a stanza in a poem
inspired by an album
inspired by twenty-three paintings.

This
is a word in a stanza in a poem
inspired by an album
inspired by twenty-three paintings.

T—
his is a letter in a word
in a stanza in a poem
inspired by an album
inspired by twenty-three paintings.


is the absence of a word
in a stanza in a poem
inspired by an album
inspired by twenty-three paintings.

*

up in the sky
we make the stars
make pictures

/ / /

14 March 2023
State College PA

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POEM: for Tom Verlaine

for Tom Verlaine

turning up Marquee Moon in the otherwise
quiet night of someone else’s house

wearing headphones because the world’s asleep
its madness closely contained in a thin layer
of clean-toned guitar riffs, slicing through

the flesh around the heart
no blood, so much blood

/ / /

28 January 2023
Farmington NY

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haiku: 7 January 2023

the room is a little too warm
Bing is singing the classics
later there’ll be snow

/ / /

7 January 2023
State College PA

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POEM: Young Boy Blues

Young Boy Blues

Digging through an online directory
I came across a copy of Jon Cleary
singing “Young Boy Blues” on
Harry Shearer’s radio show back in the day
and I think this is the first time
I’ve heard it since I lost you
and so I’m sitting in the
fucking grocery store of all places
and trying not to cry because
the college kids eating their sushi
and the parents trying to get their kids
to sit down for a few minutes to eat pizza
wouldn’t appreciate a middle-aged man
being reduced to tears with his headphones on
and anyway I’m not sure 49 is really middle-aged
because the current life expectancy for a white male
is 77 and that means the middle of life would be 39
and my current age is nearly two-thirds of the way
to the part where I won’t be able to listen
to Jon Cleary sing “Young Boy Blues” anymore anyway.

/ / /

22 November 2022
State College PA

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POEM: Digging Bill Evans

Digging Bill Evans

I was 21, driving a used car,
no money in the bank, a job
as a waiter in my uncle’s restaurant
awaiting me in the desert.
I moved into a studio apartment:
a bed, a small sofa, a scuffed old
round table from the restaurant.
I had my stereo from back east;
the library across the street
had CDs. I’d sign them out
then sit on the floor, head
between the speakers, trying to
find my way into the music.
Now I have a 20-year-old son.
I can’t afford a studio apartment.
I don’t have a job waiting for me.
I’m still trying to find my way
into whatever story the music is telling.

/ / /

21 November 2022
State College PA

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POEM: Headphones

Headphones

A new Paramore track dropped
& I couldn’t wait to listen to it with you
but then I remembered that you’re not around
so I listened to it by myself
& it wasn’t the same.

/ / /

28 September 2002
State College PA

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