Ah, teenage dream ~ Sunday, May 17, 2026

Dead drummers go to heaven or hell, dear

Decidedly, to practice for decades
each to their own design, their body type
accept the conditions that precede life
death arrives without forewarning, in spades

drummers are born, I am not a poet
relax, the muse wakes me when words are ripe
unless, old Doktor Faustus, full of strife
my dreams died when I sold my full drum kit
maybe it was never meant to be set
each to their own, as constellations form
relax, stellar nurseries from the start
sole purpose is to shine, inside the dorm

ghosts of drummers past, who lay down their art
on skins or heads in beats, primeval wit

to heaven or hell, dear, a metaphor
of course, in bad faith, was my intention

how to write a poem, wake up from heat
each to their own, I ask, what is the score
as repetition builds, difference makes
versions of the real within detention
each to their own, I met Alan, we beat
nearly everything together, until

old school brothers move on from all the fakes
relax, no one rests their laurels, I move

heaven and earth, as God Almighty wills
each to their own, we all must find our groove
lift the whole world with a fulcrum, the bills
leave me looking outside the window sill

dear, the words come easy, years of practice
each to their own, I gave up playing drums
as my drug use took its toll, in the slums
relax, I avoided fate, left on ice