Blowing Off Steam Between Gigs
We drive most of the night, tired, silent,
the tingle of band music slowly replaced
by a drone of muffled pistons in the brain,
the dirge of remaining horsepower spent
passing by low gray security-lit garrisons,
those drab industrial parks, lifeless trucks
and scenes of dingy garages in the dark.
In the spin of travelers dusting every corner
of the landscape with sedative powders
only the weight of their enormous dreams
jangles them awake, tumbles onto roadsides.
Textures of passers-by turn up in nightmare,
blending smoke and neon with furious chatter,
tending the all-night exuberance of the bistro.
Musicians improvise when they’re on the road
become more loose in action off stage than on
and like to drive on the bad side in night vision
just to get a honest reaction from tired friends.
People restricted by demands and disciplines
have to shake free on occasion, use moon rays,
a poor excuse to be mad for once, for a change.
A million things can rattle loose from visions,
faulty aims, restless energy blinking on and off.
A band gig picks up spoils and grief on stage
and leaves it all behind on receding roads.
We seem intent on putting an end to starlight,
no hand steering in dizzy-eyed pursuit of sleep,
exhausted motorcade weaving in the parade,
we writhe to get undressed before we arrive.
Sex is another drafty corridor down the hall
someone’s naked smile in a circle of clothes,
more noise to get rid of, steam to let out.
These same moldy, iron scorched rooms,
cigarette inlaid, joyless, color drained,
declare ambivalence in methodical ritual,
a place to take our self-torturing desires
and fill spiritual lungs with stale breath.
Tomorrow night this volume and billow
will power new solos on my saxophone,
sandblast crowds along brimstone road.
I refuse to sleep before morning comes
and play pool or feed vending machines
to satisfy the emptiness I have taken in;
places too grim for day-folks to comprehend,
something you vent at the rainbow’s end.
ŠJimmy Warner Design, 2001