I got a fever…
I hate poetry.
Scratch that.
I don’t get poetry.
It’s never been my forte. It always seems like a jumbled, cryptic, random form of writing.
But every now and then, I get inspired enough to create my own jumbled piece of poetry. Usually because I experience something that’s better said without words all together.
In this case, a jumbled mess of words and flashes of imagery just about perfectly capture the night I had at a local music venue here in Lafayette, LA: The Blue Moon Saloon. It’s one of those places that people from back home, people who have been here, will ask you about when you tell them about your trip to Louisiana. You won’t want your answer to be, “Huh? Never heard of it.” You’ll want your response to be a freakin’ poem — an ode to an epic night of debauchery that starts with a kiddie pool and a foam machine, and ends with the lead singer shouting from the top of Jay Steiner’s shoulders and half-naked hippie chicks bringin’ it on home on stage.
So here it is.
The one…
The only…
Poem I’m likely to write this year.
Foam
Trance inducing swamp pop
Slide-guitaring into blues
Freebird and La Grange
Floating through the air like foam through a fan
Aztecan Hurricane Dan
Puffing cigs into a microphone
A shamanic blessing from Jimmy Two-Squaws
And the show really gets started
Lucy in the sky, Mary Jane, Stella Artois
A Marlboro pirate, man
Summer’s gone
But the thrill’s still here
Floaties, inner tubes, and plastic leis
Squeezing and squeaking in the hot air
Wrapped around bodies
Wrapped around minds
It’s tops off and bottoms up
Blue Moon is upside down
Glowing butts and Dasani waterfalls
Keep ‘em comin, Babe
Handkerchief dresses sway in the front row
Photography cougars in the back
Calling all catins to the stage
Bonsoir Anya, these crazy mother fuckers can sing
