Welcome to a house that can't be kept:
The smell of hand-rolled cigarettes and Boiler Makers,
The damaged doors that open one-way,
The mob of back-club bodies circling
From one short conversation to another

There's a canyon division:
The scene girls standing high
In stylish spikes and razor haircuts
And nostril-stinging haute-perfume
Saying things like:
"I knew this guy before anyone."
When he hasn't even sold a hundred records.

The hipster boys smile wide and white.
They're in ironed suit-vests and
Tight pin-striped slacks with wallet chains.
Covered in body spray and armed --
Condoms snug in their wallets

The schism is laughable to the die-hards,
Sipping Old Crow whiskey
occupying the lip of the one-man stage.
Angry and rebellious, coming
To hear someone's soul and swagger.

An energy spills over rabid kids.
We stand, a gang of strangers,
knotted fists raised up.
This crowd of broken noses lets go as
The worn-out troubadour
Steps into the naked light.
A travelled guitar on his shoulder.

A wait, a choked breath, for that first chord.
That free ring of defiance, drenched in sad words
The drunk and rowdy kids in wild hair
And scavenged clothing riot-dance.

The troubadour belts a chorus
from behind a month-old beard
chiseled skin and aviator sunglasses.

The music is a laying of hands,
And for this gnarled sermon,
We are alive.