i played at CBGB’s when CBGB’s was a place that could be played at

i used to be so god-damned good
at aching youth…

hands in the darkness, motion over noise and
noise over noise.
it broke my bones and a guitar in hand.

now, on the verge of thirty, i
am lost. i can think of no
sweeter way of saying it. i’m
lost.
how
can a man work his way
towards death knowing
that he will never be the flag of a future
generation’s youth?
how can a man be satisfied with a retirement plan?
how can
a man live with
himself after
selling his anger for comfort, fever
for quiet, oceans for angels?
bad dreams for good dreams?
how does he learn to drive without being driven?

and fuck that theoretical man, anyway.
this is about me and how do i?
despite the fact that pontifications suit
an aging oncepunk about as well as a three-button,
100% wool shell, modern fit two piece
(i’ll bet jack white doesn’t have that in his vocabulary…or his wardrobe.)

and while i’m at it, fuck jack white.
All he knows is how to be a god, and
what good does that opinion do me?
if kids want to live out a fantasy for five
minutes, digital fame and actual fun, why
kill that party?

and while i’m at it, fuck rock band and guitar hero, too.
those digital fans aren’t real but my failure is.

i’ll dig out my soul if you’ll pass
me the teaspoon, please