Mama taught you how to want but make do, ’cause wanting was good, like California dreaming, but dreams wouldn’t feed you. Still you tried in that way that wasn’t really trying: smoking and scribbling in black-light basements to the round-and-round static sound of scratched wax. Seeing and planning but never on your feet. Never socking away your pennies but trading them for the next worn-out vision. Waiting for the planets to fall in line. The soundtrack of days was deep fuzz and single-coil spank, wet as a slick pomp dragged back and piled high. Always thinking you were born too soon or too late. Playing shows in catacombs and that one time, the High Five, elevated stage and smoky glow, strung limbs like a marionette’s. But this is your time and always has been. So where’d you go, and the music? Too quick with the ethos to get a good grip. Sharing twisted takes and dull points, sharing one another’s blood. Still, you won’t open an umbrella in the house, or set shoes on the table, ’cause Mama taught you that was bad luck.
William R. Soldan lives in Youngstown, Ohio, with his wife and two children. His poetry has appeared in publications such as Jelly Bucket, Jump: International Journal of Modern Poetry, Neologism Poetry Journal, Anti-Heroin Chic, Ohio’s Best Emerging Poets: An Anthology, and others.
Interesting piece of poetry. Love the way that you bring out your writings. Hope to see more from you. Have hope, write on! ❤️❤️❤️