the fabled, the forgotten

I was up on stage playing my guitar,

singing songs about the thrill of

something totally new.

The crowds were small,

but not wholly unappreciative.

Many of them were drunk,

divorced,

alone, or unemployed.

They put on calm faces and nodded

their heads to the rhythm of my strum,

even when my lyrics were as insightful

as a fallen god.

When a song ended,

they would usually applaud.

Most had big, broad smiles.

Some slept.

Others wept.

With every chord I played,

I just followed what was in me.

Then, one night, I added a harmonica

to my act and wrote on my guitar,

THIS MACHINE KILLS FASCISTS,

just like Woody Guthrie and people

became teary-eyed and emotional and

I suddenly became me,

despite myself, and the pressure

of being me kept me going.