Yngwie Malmsteen shredded on six strings,
set a new standard that was baroque beyond imagining.

The virtuoso rocker was a guitarist's guitarist,
a neoclassical metalhead strumming a Stratocaster like no other.

He impressed those in the know with his technical expertise.
He never struck a chord with a mainstream audience.

So I’ve been praying a bit as of late.
I’m not a real member of any particular
denomination; at the present time,
I pray to: “to whom it may concern.”
Not sure of his name—
Actually, I suppose it could be a her.
Sorry, Gloria Allred.
Let’s see there’s God,
there’s Buddha,
then there’s obviously Harry Potter.
There’s always Eric Clapton,
especially in the sixties and seventies.
There’s Pablo Escobar’s legend.
There’s Christ the Savior.
My ex calls the mighty one Yahweh.
I might refer to him as Yogi,
or is it yoga?
Wait—I meant Yngwie Malmsteen.
There’s d-lysergic acid, courtesy of Owsley.
Then there’s always Tai Chi.
It’s whatever you want to call it in order to
center yourself in this slightly slanted world.
I need to pick one of the above, because I
really am dragging my feet at this point.
Any one of my friends would agree that the
bottoms of my shoes appear to be charred.
Holy friction burn, Batman!