Niche

A somewhat unfavorable task
leads me to my ultimate passion
I find the divots in the rug where it's been before
and align
I loosen and tighten the metal fasteners,
erecting stands and attaching pedals
Cymbals in place, I grasp them,
lifting and pushing them down to ensure that
when I strike, they hit nothing
allowing their resonating tones to ring
My key makes heads taut or slack,
making rolls easier to conduct,
hits more effective

All is now in place

I grab a stick in each hand
and begin
First making a round to each individual component
then combining rimshot, bass drum, cymbal, and rack
I access my knowledge of arrangements in my mind
and decide what to compose or recreate

With aggressive intent,
I pummel my drums into submission
Within seconds I have transported myself into
another dimension
where everything I do makes sense
Even when I falter, I know why and what I must do
to correct my mistakes
Perfection is a myth and to me that is perfect
If I could blast everything without a lapse,
there would be no reason to continue
Enjoyment in this comes when I unlock the pattern
I've been striving to accomplish

My mind is a grid of accented colors
My eyes are closed to hone my remaining senses
My limbs flail in controlled chaos
My head shakes back and forth on my swiveling neck, erratic yet intentional
My focus is absolute

Flakes of wood shower my feet,
my drumsticks giving way to my unrelenting battery
Even at more restrained bars of play
My subtle force makes kindling
Cymbals bend and crack
Jagged slats that were whole
before my interference
Heads wane and form permanent concavities
I've been there countless times prior

My destruction is my pleasure
I wouldn't have it any other way

A Wasteland to Wallow In Together

When you hurt, I hurt
I wish I was there
To comfort you
To dry your eyes
To eat Chinese food at our favorite restaurant
To be nothing but a shoulder

I miss the nights when the rain was pouring down
The metropolitan streets to the brink of overflow
Me on the stoop, smoking my god-awful cigarettes
You curled up on the couch with a book or sketch pad
Some of my happiest memories are of us just being

Flea market treasures
Lamps shaped like corpulent ballerinas
Cheap shades that look expensive
Lighters as pocket knives
Merry New Year!!

One day we'll share the same zip code
And these laments will mean nothing
I am enamored by this future scenario
Exiting this neon wasteland
for a wasteland of skyscrapers
A wasteland to wallow in together

At least we can rely on each other there
No matter who comes along and promises
A dreamland
We know that it doesn't exist
And we are fine with that