Rockstar
David Sundby
He enters from stage left.
The air erupts, heavy with sweat and desire,
A Euro-brand shirt and locks of matted hair
frame his shadowed face, worn from
booze,
pot,
coke,
whatever.
Feedback,
a scratchy hello,
before the noise is pumped
thick
like sewage over the crowd.
They jump and scream with every beat,
an identical throng of non-conformity:
tattoos, piercings, painted hair.
He staggers, reckless
and they yell the words
he wrote on Denny's napkins
and motel stationery,
the words he sang last night,
the words he'll sing tomorrow,
the words they love
because the words speak
fresh and new.
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