One time in high school my brother made his own Fugazi t-shirt, and I always thought it came out pretty rad. We were mere padawans of punk rock back then, unaware of life’s true purposelessness.
I remember him spray-painting it on top of a bench in our backyard. I also remember my dad beating his ass purple that following weekend for getting black and white on his brand-new patio furnishing.
He whooped mine too once. Years prior, when I had to break a window to get in after school. I forgot my key at home because I was too excited to bring in and show off my first CD. I’d be the coolest kid in 7th grade with Smash Mouth’s Astro Lounge. “All Star” made me feel good about myself and I liked that. I wanted to share it with everyone.
Madonna was keeping her baby. I knew this, because it was a Sunday afternoon in 1986 and I had typed out, one-fingered, the entire lyrics to “Papa Don’t Preach” on an old gray IBM (or was it a Compaq?) computer, then printed them on the continuous-feed printer paper. So there it was in front of me: I’m gonna keep my baby. Mmm. O-oh. I was 12.
I had recorded “Papa Don’t Preach” from the radio. Played the tape on my Walkman. Play it. Stop. Type the lyrics. Rewind. Play. Stop. Type the lyrics. It took a while to transcribe. A few times, my mother looked over my shoulder. I didn’t see her face.
Growing up, Christmas truly was the happiest time of the year. I still love the holiday, but working part-time in a hotel restaurant while I finish my credential means Christmas is not my own anymore. While I may not have the same childlike glee and anxiousness as December 25th approaches as I once did, Christmas and its soundtrack never fail to bring back warm memories and a nostalgia that is impossible not to indulge; Christmas decorations go up promptly Thanksgiving night.
Up late cleaning the house with Overkill
by Motörhead playing too loud. Shut up
are the first two words on side two. Folks are
coming in on Friday, folks are leaving
on Sunday. What little food’s in the house
I just cut up for tomorrow’s lunchbox.
The dull cold-brew ritual, some cookies
cooling on the counter. The vacuum and
the sheets. I always knew the only way was never live beyond today. Monday.
About the Author:
Patrick Williams is a poet and academic librarian living in Central New York. His recent work appears or is forthcoming in publications including The Bennington Review, Public Pool, Sea Foam Magazine, and Posit. His chapbook Hygiene in Reading (Publishing Genius, 2016) was awarded the 2015 Chris Toll Memorial Prize. He edits Really System, a journal of poetry and extensible poetics and is the hands behind typewriter.city. Find him at patrickwilliamsintext.com and on Twitter @activitystory.
Because I never know the Osmonds sang hard rock and “Riders in the Storm” grew out of Ghostriders In the Sky
White tails upon the water, manes of frothy sea foam,
curling up to bed upon the shore
Dirty dreams of crazy horses skirting southward
Hooves ripping wrenching sandgates
in a receding flow, the water winded
on the rocky shoal
Crazy horses, crashing waves
Galloping onward till the break of a day,
carrying silver saddlebags
on a metallic pathway to the sun,
finds the body hefted shore ways
and becomes the rider in the passing
About the Author:
Barbara A Meier is really just a farm girl from Kansas who now looks at Pacific waves instead of waves of grain. She teaches Kindergarten in Gold Beach, Or. She has been published in Metonym, Birds-Highland Park Poetry, Nature Writing, Poetry Pacific, The Poeming Pigeon, and Cacti Fur. Click here to visit Barbara at her blog.
In high school,
it was all post punk and new wave—
only the potheads listened to zeppelin
so I shunned that music completely
and it wasn’t until a decade later
that I willfully listened to the group.
Never been so shocked in my life.
Every song, every lyric,
completely known to me,
integrated into my dna.
My father had been playing
zeppelin’s first few albums, anonymously,
on a reel-to-reel in our console stereo
since I was three years old
and even though he was dead by then
I loved him just a little bit more.
About the Author:
Richard King Perkins II is a state-sponsored advocate for residents in long-term care facilities. He lives in Crystal Lake, IL, USA with his wife, Vickie and daughter, Sage. He is a three-time Pushcart, Best of the Net and Best of the Web nominee whose work has appeared in more than a thousand publications.
On “Polkas on 45” by Weird Al Yankovic by Michael Fournier
My grade school best friend and I wrote parodies of popular songs. Rick Springfield’s “Love Somebody” became – you guessed it! – “Hate Somebody,” the title track of our fake band’s second album, each recorded on a side of a mercifully lost cassette.
We drew album art after we finished math quizzes. Our ‘records’ would alternate tracks by vocalist; we’d record it on his boombox.
a beat to burn off beer
we could dance
youth and heat
time on our hands
About the Author:
Leland Seese and his wife live in Seattle, about three blocks from the house Jimi Hendrix grew up in. They have six children (foster-adopted and bio) and have welcomed many more short-term foster children over the years. His poems have appeared in The MacGuffin, Juked (Web), The East Bay Review, and many other journals.
I found “World Spins Madly On” by The Weepies when scrolling through my sister’s iPod Classic, which I stole from her (she always got better birthday presents). The music video was one of the first things I ever searched on YouTube and I remember waiting patiently for my dial-up to load the whole thing before pressing play so I wouldn’t have to hear the sound of myself crying whenever it paused to buffer.
If you haven’t seen the video – just imagine a depressed little claymation monster. That’s me. A little seventh grade monster who half-assed made my bed in the morning and avoided eye contact with my reflection while brushing my teeth. Headphones permanently installed into my ears, never said more than two words a day to my family if I didn’t have to, and was best friends with my bedroom carpet and the way my ceiling looked at sunset.
I don’t know if I can remember a time when Otis Redding wasn’t my favorite voice. I have other favoritestoo like Stevie Nicks and Ella Fitzgerald and Frank Sinatra and Miranda Lambert and Nina Simone. But, Otis. Who sings like Otis? No one before and no one after. So often when I listen to Otis, I turn to my husband, my kids and go who sings like Otis? No one.
There isn’t a song by Otis Redding that I don’t like. But “Try A Little Tenderness” was my personal gateway to all things Otis. My dad’s favorite song is “(Sittin’ On) The Dock Of The Bay” and my dad isn’t really a music person. My mom loves Otis. Who doesn’t love Otis?No one. Who sings like Otis? No one. I thank Otis Redding in the acknowledgements of my debut novel Whiskey & Ribbons. My characters dance in the kitchen to “Chained and Bound.” Back in 2000, right before my husband and I left for our road trip honeymoon to Santa Fe, I bought a double-disc Otis Redding album to take along with us because being in the car for twelve hours a day means listening to Otis. When I gave my kids my old iPhones to load up with music, Otis was already on there.