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  crazy life.

  Without her

  I’d be a one-man band,

  with a played-out sound

  and no audience.

  The magic

  we compose

  is endless,

  immortal.

  We could play

  together

  for centuries.

  If I’m lucky.

  And I love

  the music

  our bodies

  make

  when we’re dancing.

  But there is one thing

  about my girlfriend

  I don’t understand.

  She says

  she doesn’t believe

  in sex

  before marriage,

  but she never

  wants to get married.

  When I ask her, Where is this all going, then?

  she likes to

  get real close,

  eyelash close,

  and say things like

  Let’s live in the moment, babe

  or we don’t need labels,

  and then

  she kisses me

  like we own the world

  and nothing else matters.

  It’s funny how

  going nowhere

  feels like it’s

  going someplace

  fast.

  Texts from Chapel

  7:37 pm

  On your way stop by

  Best Buy pls. Headphones broke.

  Red or purple. K?

  7:47 pm

  They finally left. I

  hate hiding. Wish my dad

  wasn’t so CRAY. He

  7:48 pm

  thinks all the things

  the tabloids say

  about your family

  7:48 pm

  are true. He doesn’t know

  you’re different, Blade.

  He says

  7:48 pm

  you’re going to

  drag me into sex

  and drugs.

  7:49 pm

  Hurry up and get here.

  They’re at Bible study

  ’til 10 . . .

  Leaving in ten minutes

  Sorry. Working on a song.

  Beats or Bose?

  And tell the Reverend I

  only did drugs once.

  The Show

  My father,

  Rutherford Morrison,

  can’t stand

  to be away

  from the stage.

  He has always craved

  the spotlight,

  needs it

  like a drug,

  posing, posturing, profiling

  before millions—

  an electric prophet, or so he thinks,

  capturing concert worshipers

  in the vapors

  of his breath,

  as if his voice

  was preparing them

  for rapture.

  My sister and I

  have always lived

  under the stage,

  beside it,

  behind it.

  The After-Party

  There was always

  another party.

  More loud music.

  More loud groupies.

  Booze

  and still more groupies.

  I was nine.

  He grabbed me

  and held

  a sizzling cig

  in front

  of my face.

  Only it wasn’t a cig.

  He blew smoke

  circles around me

  and laughed.

  My boy.

  The band uncles got

  in on the joke too,

  and I stuck my tongue

  in a shot glass

  full of whiskey,

  soaked it up

  like a dirty sponge.

  I loved making them laugh.

  The whiskey hurt

  my throat and

  stung my eyes.

  But the laughs

  were epic.

  Before I knew it

  I was taking my finger

  and dragging it

  across powdered

  sugar that looked

  like ant snow trails

  on the table.

  Rutherford was too busy

  kissing his ego

  to notice.

  I tasted it once,

  twice, and

  a few more times,

  trying to find

  that sugar sweet.

  But, it wasn’t sweet.

  It was salty

  bitter

  and it coated

  my mouth

  in numbness.

  I woke up

  in the ICU

  frightened

  and embarrassed

  by my father,

  who sat by

  my bedside

  crying

  in handcuffs.

  Hollywood Report

  Rutherford Morrison has kept rock alive for twenty-five

  years.

  His band, The Great Whatever, is credited with

  introducing a new flavor of

  Hard Rock to America with the release of their triple-

  platinum album,

  The History of Headaches. Even after an acrimonious

  band breakup,

  Morrison continued to have an illustrious solo career,

  selling thirty million albums worldwide.

  His music has lasted the test of time . . . until now.

  Eight years ago, he was arrested for reckless

  endangerment of his child,

  and he hasn’t released an album since.

  Most recently he’s managed three DUIs, and a drug

  overdose

  that almost sent him to a rock-star reunion with

  Kurt Cobain and Amy Winehouse.

  Rutherford may not have much time left before

  he falls flat on 12:00. Midnight can be so cruel.

  Who doesn’t feel sorry for his kids,

  left answering the hard questions, like

  How does it feel

  to be the daughter

  to be the son

  of a fallen rock star?

  Who Am I?

  I am

  the wretched son

  of a poor

  rich man.

  I do not hate

  my life.

  I am not like

  Sebastian Carter,

  who found

  his father kissing

  his girlfriend

  and now hates

  his life.

  My life is, hmmm,

  inconvenient.

  But

  if it weren’t for Chapel . . .

  Are You Sure They Aren’t Coming Home?

  Chapel and I are about to take flight,

  two souls on fire

  burning through sacred mounds of

  fresh desire.

  Our lips are in the process

  of becoming

  one

  in her hammock,

  like two blue jays nesting.

  Feeding each other

  kisses of wonder.

  I’m sure, she answers.

  Hands of curiosity.

  What are you doing?

  Kissing you.

  Slow down, Blade.

  Why?

  Woo me.

  Woo you?

  A song.

  Come on, babe, we don’t have time for that.

  But we have time for this? she says,

  puckering her lips, and

  hypnotizing me

  with eyes blue

  as the deep blue sea.

  Those Eyes Will Be the Death of Me

  My gravestone will read:

  Here lies a young man

  who died inside

  the gaze of a woman.

  I watch the river

  in her eyes gallop f
orth

  fall into them

  dive into them.

  She smiles.

  Those eyes.

  I can’t escape

  the depth of them.

  The song has ended,

  but the melody still rings

  from her mouth.

  I can’t hear a word.

  I’m lost

  in these two comets

  that move across

  my universe.

  I remember

  the first time

  she looked at me

  like this.

  Two years ago

  before he hit

  an all-time low,

  Rutherford threw

  one of his

  Hollywood Rocker House Parties

  which became Storm’s

  pool party

  SLASH sweet sixteen

  SLASH get-all-the-kids-at-our-school-drunk-so-they-

  could-listen-to-Storm’s-mixtape-and-think-it-is-hot

  party.

  While they dove deep

  in shallowness,

  I found a quiet corner,

  a vintage Rutherford Morrison guitar

  took it off the wall

  and started playing

  American Woman

  and any tune

  with a hard groove

  to soften

  the dull.

  Minutes

  or an hour

  went by

  before I looked up,

  and there she was

  sitting

  in the chair

  across from me,

  her legs

  with dancer calves

  entwined

  like twin yellow flowers.

  Her skin, amber sun.

  And those pretty blue eyes

  just watching me

  like she cared.

  Amazing. Keep playing, she said. Don’t let me interrupt

  you. And

  then she got up,

  sauntered off

  glancing over her shoulder,

  leaving me

  thunderstruck.

  Those eyes.

  Those blue eyes.