Rob Krabbe's Blog: From a Krabbe Desk, page 7
July 9, 2011
We Were Rock and Rollers
© 2010 Rob Krabbe
At the Troubadour, gassed up for
the two hundred and twenty first show
of the year, one funked up night,
five more in North Hollywood.
Bend a few, see what gives.
"No Smoking!" a good thing,
till we smelled the club in it's glory.
It was just one more dues-paying gig
and they all smelled like piss and beer.
Forty years of leaking drunks, uncovered
by a popular-but-not-around-here
greater LA ordinance, so my fellows,
"light up" we were pleading
way before happy hour.
Finally, an illegal herbal haze
was spreading in anticipation.
With the traditional mingling
of the herbs, bold cologne and fresh booze,
I pronounced the crowd "ready to ROCK".
Drummer Dave winked at me,
twirled a hog's leg, and smashed a rim shot
that could have launched the Titanic
right to the deep, and saved the ice for the booze.
Little Bear announced the band.
"Ladies and Gentlemen"…
a deep-pocket zen groove slammed
into my chest like a steady panic attack.
During this yet one more moment
we've all been waiting for:
"The Jake Collins Band!"
The room exploded and pulsed like a fresh heart.
I defibrillated and Jack-Horner'd
to the bassman's corner,
having lived too much life to
play center stage under the hot lights.
We had a young sexy front man for that
and he did aerobics and still slept
well on the bus at night.
I love to watch though, from
the 'best seat in the house' and,
baby, court was in session.
Posers, losers, and rock and rollers
hustling the want-to-be somebodys.
A leather wearing horny C.P.A. smiling behind a
cowboy pimp mask two decades too late.
His toupee flap-jacking to the beat, snapping his fingers
like he used to have some crazy power over women,
as he bobble-headed toward some forty year old
'single girls' at the end of the bar.
Looking damned cool doing it, I'd say,
as surprisingly he came on to cross-dressing Steve;
I guess he figured it out when Steve smiled, and asked
"did we just have a moment?"
Mr. Bad Hair Day couldn't leave quick enough.
Guitar-man erupted, swirling his blade fast,
high and wide, and cut everyone
in the room, leaving bodies everywhere.
Cool swaying masses of pulsating flesh, reeling
from the opening solo, rhythmically licking the blood
off each other, while singer Jake lays back,
straddles the mike-stand like a forty dollar hooker.
I rif on my bass and drummer Dave kicks into
the deepest pocket ever created by men, and
the foundation for singer Jake's smokey gravel
voice is in place; appetites are in peak season.
Making love to the microphone, Jake
lays the starving audience down onto
his bed, his gift: each person,
the only one in the room.
Mystic healer slinging a Ten-Penny
Hartford ale and sleazy lyrics
he found on a truck-stop bathroom wall
deep in the heart of the motor city,
back in nineteen-ninety-four.
The old song still does the trick however.
He promises nothing, ever,
but tonight he was a one-audience man.
He tosses lies at the crowd but his eyes
reach out, prying into the loneliness, and
breaking down the work-a-day walls.
The divided sheep and goats melt
into a massive collective soul.
Men, women and in-betweens, hypnotized by
the voice of the son of an alcoholic Midwest druggist,
they became one creed, one race, one people.
Jake eases into his lover, pressing the
first verse slow and easy, deeper, and deeper
all the way in, to the chorus.
A french art student faints and slides to the ground
screaming, lies there panting and wiggling
between boots and heels, trying to catch her breath,
dodging vomit drops and once again
tries to master gravity but fails.
Me, I'm downing a bottle of 26-year-old Scotch.
Bloody wasted that award winning hootch,
chasing a 'bakers' dozen' beers, the blues,
and a random chunk of tooth; I still don't know
where that came from, but afterwards I took
a long hot shower, and threw out my shoes.
Somehow, right after the third encore,
I woke up in the state of Arizona, getting off a
bus with no identification and
seven dollars in my pocket.
It was at that moment of discovery when
I found the note pinned to my jacket that read
"Write when you find work – like never."
I laughed because
we were having too good a time
to think about tomorrow.
We were rock and rollers.
Summer Heat [part two]
Most of my life, I have lived understanding that when one wakes up from a dream, one opens one's eyes, and slowly comes back to reality. Then one day, I had some surgery, where I had to go under general anesthesia.
Time ceased to mean anything to me that day.
That horrid feeling when I am counting backwards, as asked to do, that I had been lided to. Then suddenly the world is upside down. I know in that split second that my very life hangs in the balance.
"Rob hold still!" I hear but I am not fooled. The bastards were trying to kill me.
I reach out blindly, and grab the nearest weapon, a sword stuck into the ground next to me. Covered in blood. Blood dripping down my arm and down my chin, I can even taste it. A monster of a man with four arms tries to hold me down while another stabs me repeatedly. I know I won't go without taking several of these bastards with me. I pull the sword up and begin thrusting into any flesh I can reach. Slice and stab, I hear a crash and a scream. Blood quirts out and flows freely again, from a hole in my arm.
"Rob, please! Calm down! Do you hear me Rob?" One of the monsters tries to imitate my own wife's voice. Nice try. I think to myself, and stab in the general direction of the faker.
I blank out again, I am doomed.
The real conspiracy then happens with the "story" of reality I was asked to swallow. Then I begin to realise I am in the hospital bed, it is storming outside, and my face is bandaged.
"What the fuck?" I ask politely.
"What do you mean?" Melissa, sitting in a chair nearby answers.
"What happened? Are we dead?" Apparently the general anesthesia is wearing off but none too fast.
"You tried to kill everyone again."
Crap. I knew in the next breath what had happened. I came in to the hospital for a simple operation, and I guess the reality I had feared, was the reality I woke up to.
"Did I hurt anyone?"
"Only an orderly. You stabbed him with the IV pole."
"Is he ok?"
"Seven stiches, but we did warn them."
"Yes my dear we did." I shook my head, and Melissa didn't know what else to say, when a nurse came in tentatively.
"Mr. Krabbe, do you need anything?" She said, holding back a few feet.
"No. Do I know you."
"Oh, no, not really. You tried to kill me a few hours ago, but other than that, no."
"I'm sorry. I warned the anesthesiologist, I react to the meds. I asked them to tie me down before they brought me out of it."
The nurse wasn;t sure what to say, but then offered, "We had a meeting of the surgical team, where we were instructed that if you come to the hospital again, we are to do that, yes."
I nodded, and so did Melissa, with great understanding. I had broken a dental nurses arm the first time it had happened. "Drug induced fight or flight defense panic," they called it. This time I found out no one was really hurt but it could have been a disaster, had my own mother not come in and talking to me in her critical mommy voice, me a man of 46 years old, talked me into believing I was not being murdered by a gang of thugs, and it was ok to calm down, and let go of the doctor, who I had been holding by the throat.
Then SLAM, flash, thunder and a rumble, and I am back in my office, and I hear the rain pouring down; its seven years later, and this coffee is the best I have tasted in a long while.
A sixteen hour day staring at my computers, needs to be over now, and I get up and walk slowly into the house. I need to sleep. Insomnia had been my companion again for the past few weeks. Tomorrow will be an important day. I don't have any clue at the time, as I close the door behind me and go into my living room, but the next day would be a day I would never forget.
For now I need rest.
July 8, 2011
Summer Heat [part one]
Summer afternoon's relief; my soul, my heart, my mind. My forest office cabin, deep in the upstate of South Carolina, flashes bright and blinds me for a moment. I am between two creeks midst a field of old hot trees; storm cells, lightning bolts, and wind pelt me when I open the door. I really like it. Pretty nice of the old man to know I'd need a break from the relentless sleepiness, and send some hail and sheets of water to cool us off, in the bath of blistering rays and stifling humidity.
The attendants hovering over me as I close my eyes and slip back into the dream for just a moment.
"Can you tell us your name?"
"Do you know where you are?"
"What do you remember of the accident?"
The room is white and sterile, and the machines beep and whir and make otherworldly demonic noises. Hooked up and kept dead in this place. But I found a door. The demons hover waiting for me to give up, but I don't. I open my eyes escaping again, and a lightning bolt flashes close and before I can think, the explosion rocks my world. It must have struck near because it even shook my office. I love thunderstorms, and the lightning very rarely strikes me and kills me. I can't remember the last time that actually happened it's been so long.
Every time I blink, I see for that millisecond, the reapers as they hover waiting for me to fuck this up and fall asleep. I close my eyes for more than a second and they startled, reach for my soul, but I open my eyes, and dart out the door again. They tell me I have to undergo some kind of surgery, the bastards. Who do they think they are dealing with, I know better. I hear the gun shots again, and I realise I had closed my eyes for a second. I duck and cover, and my eyes slam open shielding me as the bullets pass right through me, a close call.
I shake off the afternoon and walk outside my office into the random cloud draped sunlight. The blanket being drawn across the sky, for the day's burst is approaching; nice. I sit down on my deck and sip my fresh cup of hot Sumatra, which according to me, is a great way to deal with the heat, and most argue I'm nuts. I am, but not about coffee. A light breeze, and I can tell the rain will start soon. I smell it. Flash, bang, a blessing again, seventy or so yards away in the forest a tree has a new black scar.
At that moment I understand I must not close my eyes, but will I remember? I'm so tired, I fight the afternoon sleeiness again, but my eyes close without my permission and this time I am transported to the battle.
Summer Heat [part one]
The attendants hovering over me as I close my eyes and slipback into the dream for just a moment. "Can you tell us your name?" "Do you know where you are?" "What do you remember of the accident?"The room is white and sterile, and the machines beep andwhir and make otherworldly demonic noises. Hooked up and kept dead inthis place. But I found a door. The demons hover waiting for me to give up,but I don't. I open my eyes escapingagain, and a lightning bolt flashes close and before I can think, the explosionrocks my world. It must have struck near because it even shook my office. I love thunderstorms, and the lightning veryrarely strikes me and kills me. I can'tremember the last time that actually happened it's been so long. Every time I blink, I see for that millisecond, the reapersas they hover waiting for me to fuck this up and fall asleep. I close my eyes for more than a second andthey startled, reach for my soul, but I open my eyes, and dart out the dooragain. They tell me I have to undergosome kind of surgery, the bastards. Whodo they think they are dealing with, I know better. I hear the gun shots again, and I realise I had closed my eyes for a second. I duck and cover, and my eyes slam open shielding me as the bullets pass right through me, a close call.I shake off the afternoon and walk outside my office into the random cloud draped sunlight. The blanket being drawn across the sky, for the day's burst is approaching;nice. I sit down on my deck and sip myfresh cup of hot Sumatra, which according to me, is a great way to deal with theheat, and most argue I'm nuts. I am, but not about coffee. A light breeze, and I can tell the rain willstart soon. I smell it. Flash, bang, a blessingagain, seventy or so yards away in the forest a tree has a new black scar.At that moment I understand I must not close my eyes, but will I remember? I'm so tired, I fight the afternoon sleeiness again, but my eyes close without my permission and this time I am transported to the battle.
June 4, 2011
49 and 363/365ths
Two days to fifty. What
does that really mean?
Do I run out an have an
affair with some young
thing, that makes me feel
young-ish? Buy a car that
points out to others, how
virile and exciting I am?
Maybe color my hair,
wash out the weak and
tender gray, so the perfect
dark brown rides an ironic
sad line against the old
gray wrinkled skin like a
far-too-well-manicured lawn
in the front of the Adam's
mortuary and crematorium.
Fuck that.
There is truth.
I believe. I know where the
time went. I know where
I wasted. I know where
I pathetically wallowed
and I know exactly why
I didn't hit all the goals and
dreams and plans and
schemes.
I am not ashamed.
Unless it would be for all
the times I didn't try, or
didn't make an effort, while
I lay there tired, and afraid.
Life, like Satan, once
bidden, will at least come in
sure as shit.
So to hell with regrets.
Pack away the lessons
learned and get to
the next fifty.
But just wait . . .
it's not for two days.
May 19, 2011
Down Deep
Some days.I go down deep.
Before the lights come up on the stage.
Deep.
Into a different Place.
Where I can't hear anything but feel the
music.
All I can see are
the shadows in
the darkness
of my universe.
The beat, the
groove. I love
Latin jazz or
deep pocket
rock and roll.
I live within
the steamy salsa
drums, pouring
over me.
Saturate me.
Hide and seek.
Rhythm.
Like the stacking
of clean dishes
in the kitchen.
The pain that seeks me can't find me here.
You . . . death
you want me?Paying attention?You tracking?
You will have
to wait until
tomorrow.
The Jesus Moon
I see you, you know.
You're not so very smart in your brightcotton suit and your white canvass shoes with the coffee stains.
Don't even try your
illusive, lost in the
fog-draped night tricks.
You hide behind this cloud
and that, that shroud, and
then, I see you watch me
from your scavenger's
nest. Oh . . . hungry? . . .yes,
the meat but no stomach
for the death I see.
My mind, is a place
for fools, yes, but you?
You really don't know,
do you? Well, sometimes I die
for you, Sometimes . . .
I lied for you.
This Jesus moon.
Reflecting someone else's
glory from the bema seat,
reach the verdict well.
Remember, "justice first."
Don't miss the worship
of the faithful, as the clouds
make love to me. Fingers
lightly drawn across me,
touching me,
taunting me,
romancing me,
but . . . sadly, they relent.
So I go ahead,
and I set my clock, anyway.
High above, they swirl
around your body, and
I see. as if you would dance the
skies, revealing your truths
and lightly draping your lies,
over the soul.
Little white lies that cover
and uncover you, you sausage
and beer flasher, in the park.
Some cosmic tease, you.
Just a haunting memory,
and all the while, you moan,
and you sigh
though alone.
Watch me:
my body trembles
Muscles seize
Arch, tense up,
and scream,
then spent,
lays back, into
the cold forever sky.
Now in the silent,
wispy lie,
floating, lazy,
and fade into
the ghost of
my longest
ever night.
May 9, 2011
Existentia
Tenuous hold. Existence. Life,
Within this fogged
saggy head.
Ears lobes that,
someday or so,
will just softly drag
on the ground
like an empty sack.
After a life of
enlightenment,
and higher, impressive
critical thinking,
when my well meant
limousine-liberal
save-the-world
angst just lay limp
with other parts
no longer needed.
For the record book:
"You'll go down in
hist-oo-ree" is crap.
I hope not that
particular legacy
anyway. I'd rather
leave a nice friendly
sigh with a iced glass
of sweet tea.
I still get my fool on.
Stroke it, feel it,
make love to it,
rub it against my
naked looser flesh
this "higher truth,"
but box it up?
Nope. My damned
box is too small.
So here is my best
alternate truth:
My grandma Collins said it,
so . . . it must be true.
I can hear echoes of
her faint scratchy
praise-Jesus voice,
singing on the front porch,
rocking in that rickety
big momma chair,
with never-spent religious
fervor, and a chaw of
some-say-foolishness,
while Grandpa Collins
bangs his passion out on
the ol' upright honky-tonk,
grinnin' ear to ear without
his teeth "cuz they don't
fit right."
"We will meet in that great by and by."
I toast her, and this reality,
with a tug a "squeezins"
sitting on big momma's rocker.
Beautiful, and me . . .
however long "by and by,"
takes. I always liked being
"down by the river." anyway,
So that suites me just fine.
April 28, 2011
Always in the Shadows
The beast
behind me, in the shadows,
breathes fire and ice,
chasing me
through creek and field.
I run, dodge, duck, bleed,
and the bones of my feet
push through the flesh
when I scratch
clues in the dirt
to find my way out.
I am in my forever hell place.
"Little fragile girl," he says
and overpowers me. Again.
It's easy for the creatureto catch such a small fish
in his mighty talons.
Over and under,
bending in two,
grinding,
pushing, cutting, drilling
his way inside,
shoving his violence
into me.
He stabs me with the hatred
he keeps hidden
under the flap
of his fat belly.
He pierces my body,
opening spigots of blood.
Oh that I may simply die.
Please let me hold my breath.
Only one breath I want to hold -
forever.
Fountain of blood
dances and spins and
trickles, trickles, trickles
into his fishing pond.
Then he tells me not
to let the bed bugs bite
and kisses me good night.
I vomit in the morning
when I still smell like him.
April 25, 2011
Undone
© 2011 Rob KrabbeDense clouds settling downsurround me;
this
echoing ghostlike winter's rolling sea.
Hug my morning with yourambivalence.
Lay down naked onmy spirit, like a loverlost to fading memoryand the worshipwithin her paleblue eyes.
Oh my sweet,brother sun,loyally seek me, lost within this comfort of lies.
Burn this foggy morning head away into an afternoon well done.
What I don't know would fill the landscapeas a kindling fire.
and . . .
AllI need to fearin this life . . .is what I know,sometimes my heart's desire,
and all I leave undone.
From a Krabbe Desk
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