Heavy Metal Lovers


A rolling stone gathers no moss the only time I was good at something all it took was four wheels
And you could be a Genius I guess the wheels gives it away this isn’t about bad boy bands heavy
That broke many a levees of the mind but it is inextricably wound together with music and how apropos
To write about it today when the music of all heaven was called to silence and then a whole lot of
Shaking began When **** Clark walked through the gate don’t waist it just taste it it’s all right to be
Burly and squirrely “Get lost in the rock and roll” amp it up Bob Seeger everything comes with rules
There was time before Elvis but it still applied cool cats had one command be cool don’t break the
Jackson rule of Cool Square is not the fit you want to project oh the sixties the place the strip in
Hollywood the car an Austin Healy convertible if they even had hard tops which I doubt reading Michael
Canes auto biography he spoke of him being there I didn’t see him but he got swallowed up by the
Great beast it flowed out of those clubs into the street the sidewalks full of hot babes and cool dudes
We were so low it was like you were on the payment it even got into the act there was a raw energy
That electrified every ounce of your being it rose out of the payment and cruised those Hollywood
Streets plus every street in America felt its heat and heard it s roar red cherry glass pack mufflers
Then songs took up the anthem I had fun fun until my daddy took my T bird away shutem down GTO Jan
and Dean’s Drag City, Dead Man’s Curve, The little old lady from Pasadena and many more but the king
of cars that held the title was held by no other than the Cobra we were a couple of brazen GIs with a
Seventy two hour pass we met the enemy at a stop light the Austin Healy sounded so throaty in that
Southern California night air and we lived the song do you know the way to San Jose LA isn’t nothing but
A bunch of old freeways we would roar up the entrance to the ten the Malibu highway the Five to Dego
The 710 to long beach and the Queen Mary this southern California kid from Compton a suburb of LA
Was giving me the grand tour Disney and Knox berry later in the day the big sad Walt had just died
And then there was this monster next to us it was towering before we felt so continental a slight British
Smugness as we drove this fine European sports car but when the lion roars your purring becomes a
Little puckish it was bulging in comparison we were like a joke your mother won’t let you have a real car
What did they paint the light red how many shades of red did we turn as we set in this shadow of green
Paint and death for any idiot that tossed out a challenge when he took off it was like our car was
Wearing a smug British suit and the force he generated when he accelerated tore every stitch off down
To just underwear praying the smog would quickly envelop us the rest of the way didn’t happen so you
Do what anyone does you choose the less of two evils and rattle on about how they put Porches engines
Into VW bugs like who cares why is one of those suckers behind us well they are cool and this is about
Cool cars you could always tell them by the tail pipe instead of a round rifle barrel it had a wide round
Funnel at the end like the old blunder bust guns of the colonists then an era and times needs a voice
The male was a mix of Lou Rawls and Berry white doing the singing but also any time introduction was
Needed Aretha took care of the female side Jimmy Hendrix took care of the instrument on his
Supernatural guitar Hugh Masicali African Jazz drummer follow the beat every teen Idol was making
The girls swoon then you add in the mix the American auto chrome and steel dreams see the heat rising
Flashes that were blurs running wide open filled with teens and thrill filled screams and then there was
The exit and the entrance there was a royal distinction that rubbed off on its occupants the cool look
And clothes and hair for both sexes dreamy stars in all places not just the bright lights of movie magic
For girls it was they rode well but if they took the wheel this sealed the deal how can you add curves to
Curves they had the saying your blowing my mind man it in toned them as perfect inter changeable the
Womanly softness the interior the lines outside truly defined you are in the presence of qualities that
Run deeper than just the surface you see so much more how blessed when both car and women
Continually amaze you think you discovered everything oh foolish one you just stepped into another
Power zone that was built in at creation somehow the car was somewhat accidental but the woman’s
Was on purpose cheating would cease to a great extent if the truth was only known you got more
Excitement than you will ever know and for the man let him step out rise to his full height there is
Something sweeping and grand about it how could it be any different muscle and brawn distinction
Used as in art subtle but by being so it is so telling appeal runs no stronger and it effects effortlessly
Adds maximum benefit and joy girls find it unmercifully enjoyable packaged like fine wine in a wooden
Box with straw in other words perfected delivery of romance simply a soothe that washes over you
With lasting ramification the golden straw has glistening particles as well as star dust that make other
World tastefulness abide in two lives equally shared so drive into the setting sun in your own heavy
Metal dream that we love so well

Written by Arlo Guthrie and Pete Seeger; adapted by Mike Essig.


Halfway around the world tonight
In a strange and foreign land
A soldier packs his memories
As he leaves Afghanistan

And back home, they don't know too much
There was just no way to tell
You know* you had to be there
To know that war was hell

And there won't be any victory parades
For those that's coming back
They'll fly them in at midnight
And unload the body sacks

And the living will be walking down
A long and lonely road
Because nobody seems to care these days
When a soldier makes it home

Somewhere in America tonight
In this strange and foreign land
A soldier unpacks memories
That he saved from Vietnam

They said it wasn't easy
Just another job, well done
Then the government in Saigon fell
To the sounds of rebel guns

And the faces of the comrades
Who were blown out of the sky
Leaves you bitter and disgusted
That they didn't have to die

The old men who planned that war
You know they all died safe in bed
With none of their rich and privileged sons
Ending up torn or dead

Back home they didn't know too much
There was just no way to tell
You know you had to be there
to know that war was hell

And there wasn't any big parades
For those that made it back
They flew them home in secret
and told them to make tracks

And the living were left walking down
A long and lonely road
Because nobody seemed to care back then
When a soldier made it home

The night is coming quickly
And the stars are on their way
As I stare into the evening
Looking for the words to say

That I saw the lonely soldier
Just a boy that's far from home
And I saw that I was just like him
While upon this earth I roam

And there may not be any big parades
If I ever make it back
As I come home under cover
To a world that can't keep track

Of the heroes who have fallen
Let alone the ones who roam
Guess that's why nobody seems to care
When a soldier makes it home

I HAVE A RENDEZVOUZ WITH DEATH



Ayad Gharbawi

To the many needing comfort, needing advice, needing passions sincere, to whom do they turn to?

To whom can they turn to?

The days unmask the increasing emptiness between all of us, and the need for revolt is always there. The urge to be solitary as a reflection of one’s disgust with the hollowness of human beings, is always an attraction for some.
The urge to speak one’s mind to all people, to shatter the idiotic niceties and protocol that separates all of us and represses our genuine needs and desires and ardent wishes in life, is always an attraction for some.

The need to transcend the humdrum of our lives daily is there, and yet we feel that somehow little can be truthfully done. That is such a prevalent feeling – that as an individual I can do very little to change my life, so one submits to apathy wearying.

The society of individuals increasingly down cast and alone while at the same time people may increase their social contacts – but, there are no positive results to be gained therefrom, for the ‘human’ is crumbling as a sovereign entity into frightened fragments, self-doubt and confusion.

Ask yourselves, what is the net emotional result of all your socialising? For when the certain hour arrives and you witness that accusatory feeling of ‘What have I done?’ your horrifying reply will be that you have done nothing to fulfil your needs and desires and passions.

The hour does ask you: ‘What do you feel at the end of it all?’ and your emotions search vainly for meaning and fulfilment, for in essence there never existed any meaning and fulfilment in your lives in the first place.

Your life style, your socialising has merely succeeded to varying degrees and extents in covering up your real needs and desires.
Thus, in essence, you are merely ignoring, avoiding and repressing your true feelings; the ‘successful’ day is when you do not feel the urge to express your needs; in other words you have successfully been able to distract yourself from your real self.
However, ones innate needs and desires return to haunt us because they are our essence existentially.

Repression of one’s needs and desires and hopes results in disastrous consequences of the self. We are not being true to our selves. We are masks, we are afraid of ourselves because if we were to face ourselves, then that would entail changing our lifestyles and our frame of mind.

The humans around you are not ‘real’.

They are not what they are pretending to be.

The humans around you are living in sorrow hidden by niceties and good manners and protocol and a million other worthless distraction. The humans around you are losing their humanity, their creativity, their needs and passions while they go about the routines of their various lives predictable.

Man is dying in himself, willingly wistfully to accept his/her resignation from life; echoes of Seeger’s poem, ‘Rendezvous’ can hardly be ignored:


‘But I’ve a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town
When spring trips north again this year
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.’


           Ayad Gharbawi -

I saw the ghost of Jack Kerouac
Walking an empty highway at night
I walked with the ghost of Carl Sandburg
In the ancient streets of Charleston
I sang with the ghost of Woody Guthrie
Along Rocky Mountain trials, through Yellowstone
I played music with the ghost of Pete Seeger
On my guitar, around a campfire
I read the words of my poems with the ghost of Allen Ginsberg
Quietly, in the dark, alone in an empty room

Lisas and Cheryls in halter tops walk the
Halls of Stoughton High full
Throttle, coiffed fleece fiercely feathered,
Tonys and Tims trawling in tow, toting
Texts.

Tims and Tonys slip
Slyly away, skip shop, talk
****, **** a doob behind
Bob’s Baitshop’s garbage dunes, tunes of
Geils and Seeger and Stones, applaud
Lisas and Cheryls, laud deserving
Donnas and Dianes (but dude, don’t
Let on!)

See,
A solitary Tony takes to one shapely
Cheryl’s sultry swagger, staggers, blathers
His rathers, turning her hair’s fair feathers
A-flair, she helping his hand higher up her hip, her
Cup, her concupiscent luscious lower lemon-lacquered lip, he agog, a *****
Dog with a bone.  And a libidinous loner
Lisa prefers a particular turgid Tim, digs
His Doors tee tucked
In to tight tan cords, affords
Herself a longer linger as his fingers
Dangle, thick thumbs hooked in belt. Looked at,
Felt, ***** his hip, flips a nod, draws a
Sneer, paws her rear, she his
Haunch, he steady and
Staunch, Steady and
Staunch
Not gonna
Launch
Steady
gawdamnsunuvabitch!
Thaws the sneer
Right there.
High gears it outta here.

It’s the sound of peeling wallpaper,
Damp seeping in from the frost bitten windows.
Daytime traffic on Christmas eve,
And misted breath between pages of Pound,
Eliot and Rimbaud.

It’s the sound of mouldy drapes,
Clutched to the rail that clings to the rust.
The hiss and crackle of today,
And the wave of the colonial - of Guthrie,
Williams and Seeger.

It’s the sound of a Tangier typewriter,
Clacking to the chimes of a generation.
The scrawl of freedom
And the echoes of our fathers – of Kerouac,
Ginsberg and Burroughs.

It’s the sound of the swamp,
A hoodoo beat winding through the ruins.
From bayous to boroughs,
Following the march of Washington,
Franklin and Jefferson.

It’s the anthem of a teenage disease,
The force of the Devil’s crossroads.
The returning of a light, obscured
In the ruins of time.
It’s the song of the tambourine,
And the lasting footsteps of a song and dance man.

He sang the people's songs
and faught the people's causes.
Others heard and blacked his name.
That was for him no badge of shame.

A five string banjo man,
folk singer, left winger,
he sang brave words in trying times,
striving to strengthen basic rights.

Pete Seeger died aged ninety-four
and left a heritage for man.
Asking us to Turn! Turn! Turn!
Urging us to overcome.

When you write a poem
What do you tell them?
Are you honest with them?
Do you tell them that you believe in God
That, though you are not Catholic, you believe in holy saints in plain clothes
Saints that don't know they are saints
No one can tell until they speak holy words of compassion
Do you tell them you think there is a bigger plan?
A greater purpose outside of passing off genetic material to another generation
Would they ask you what it means to you when someone says born again?
Would you tell them that you feel born again most Sundays but let yourself slip back into comfortable death the next morning?
Do you tell them about your job?
(Do they care?)
Do you tell them about your dreams?
(Do they listen to that either?)
Do you tell them that lately your dreams have been faint and you are afraid that one day you are going to wake up and not recognize the pieces that are left on the floor?
Do you tell them when you are down and out?
That you prefer using the term "melancholy"
Because it sounds a lot more artistic than "like ****"
Do you tell them that you think you sometimes swear a little too much?
That it makes you seem unapproachable
Do you tell them about your struggle to decide whether or not you want to make yourself approachable for love?
Do you tell them that maybe you saying "I don't have the energy to invest in a relationship" also means "I don't have the energy to invest in a heartbreak"
Do you tell them you have never been that great at love and you are afraid you missed every chance you had
Do you tell them you would rather dig the world
(As your heroes say)
Do you ask them if you talk about your heroes too much?
Do you tell them about the tears shed for Johnny Cash that night after you finished his memoir?
Do you tell them where you where when you heard the news of Pete Seeger's death and wished you would have learned it later?
Do you tell them about all the times you look in the mirror and tell yourself "Joe Strummer lived with such power that his heart gave out, how dare you be so apathetic, with such self pity"
Do you tell them that you love them?
Even if you don't know them that well and don't understand exactly what they are going through
That deep deep down you do secretly understand
What should you tell them when you write your poems?
You should tell them that