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PURCHASE THE DIGITAL COLLECTION (2013)
Joe Strummer (b. John Graham Mellor)
8.21.52 Ankhara, Turkey / D. 12.22.02 Broomfield, England
Ring ring seven AM.
Joe Strummer dead at FIFTY!
Summer 1982 Cape Cod Coliseum day two
all day in the parking lot
all the beer that will fit in a car, in me
in the four of us
scoring chartreuse, meaningless ďPOTĒ
from an embarrassed boy.
You grow up and you calm down.
The embarrassed, lichen-smoking boys collect.
Endless over the scrub pines
a sky finally decently bluing.
Cities a rumor, a taunting fiction
sheets of liquid newsprint
decanted onto a bus.
Better go inside itís open seating hey thereís plenty of room letís get close to the stage! "Iím a rock reporter for the Boston Phoenix, we all are, all four of us, tell us why youíre here, what does this music mean to you?" but the boy just looks embarrassed by my lie and wonít speak. Here comes the band! Chord four, my predicament detailed: ass, in Chrisís chest; feet (look at my old high tops!) planted in a strange boyís back. Having miscalculated during the surge and fight for standing room, Iíve lost the floor completely. My sister is screaming. I am being folded like a fish. Chorus, extrication; to the bleachers we retreat.
Let fury have the hour.
Boys below me
below the four of us, a thousand-some brown heads
a minkís back heaving.
Boys' teeth buried in the stage
where two quarelling leads and a junkie drummer
will attempt an escape
from their careers:
Oh no itís The Combat Rock Tour!
Rock the Casbah Rock the Casbah Rock the Casbah
okay I get it.
Paul Malik, snoring straight through Straight to Hell.
Straight to hell boys, straight to heh-eh-ell!
My revelation from that time
returns to comfort me.
ďThe Clash taught us our rights:
even our right to sleep through their bad songs.Ē
Bad news today. . .oh boy.
Vacuum cleaner sucks up budgie
For Peter Litchfield, Musician
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