June 2006

after the fable of the first blown gig
 

Ode to the Unknown, Blown Gig

 

No one knows about blown gigs –
the gig you screwed because

You ask too many questions or
 favors, got to know the manager

Too well, making too many
assumptions about his (her) character.

 

The tomb of the unknown gets
more respect than a blown gig,

More salutes and public awareness,
better off being a mystery 

Than a soldier who found much favor
with his comrades in arms.

 

A blown gig receives no retractions, apologies or clarification in the

Classifieds, not even a coded message
in the personal ads.

You pack your bag in the small hours
of the night and leave, forever.

 

No one knows about the gig you blew  because you show up a

Day late too sick to hack it, still hung
from a night of tequila depth

Charges and beer, greasy burritos and vending machine snacks.

 

You head back down the road or just
keep going because you

Vow not to return to a gig too far,
your burned bridge, that limb

You sawed off, the one you perched
on so confidently just now.

 

There is no wine to be made of your
sour grapes, grumbling that

Gig money was less than gig expenses, deducting the motel cost,

Gas and tolls, food, tequila, consoling yourself, it would a sucked.

 

I accept the loss, blowing the too few midnight hours between gigs,

But grab a flash of mirthful inner truth, knowing that band members

Rarely remember who caused the
blown gig, who bothers to keep

 

Those insignificant memories alive?
But, you will, eternally, nights,

Sharing your sad history with anyone
who will listen, the poem you

Bare before a caring audience,
known only in the blown gig zone.