I Wanna Be Your Sleater-Kinney
Published in Octopus Magazine
When a unit finally opens across from the clinic, he jumps
on it. He records live to two-track. He works third shift
security at an import warehouse near the harbor. Helium
plasma bolts from the assault weapon at the speed of sound.
The tat letters on his toes spell: FEELM YNOIZ. He wears
sandals, even in the winter, so he can meditate as he walks.
At work cloudDead scuzzes a blaster with a broken tweeter.
He fears the telepathic talents of his enemy. I have hands
as small as an ant says the voice that lives in his radiator.
It sounds like the alt kind gone cigar bar. He understands
in a heartbreak how brows may bunch. He picks up some
overtime at the warehouse so he can nab a better scope.
He works with a guy named Guy who says Give me a cell
and a credit card and one hour and I'll give you the world.
Guy is saving for a Lexus. He tells Guy he's holding out
for a car that can spit fire and bound over traffic. Sure
you are. I had you pegged. Surprised, Officer? Hell no!
I knew that boy was made from Mansonite! He likes when
you listen to certain songs and things aren't overly certain.
Multitrack recording is boring. Working nights allows him
day to just watch. Certain women make him chop-socky.
His bathroom floor is covered with empty glassine wrappers
and a litter of mic preamps from 1953. One night he goes
to a bare bones bar. A woman twice his age says You look
undercover. She says he's sardonic. He's not sure even
after he looks it up. She offers him fifty bucks to scrub her
basement floor. He wants to sound unquestionably choice.
Next time you're walking in that district, look, look up
at his head glowing like a lo-beat miner's sodium lamp.
This ends with a VOCALIST WANTED ad in The Voice.