In a shoebox of cassettes
the scrawled-in-pen names of DJ’s
are spelled-out on thin, white stickers.
These faceless heroes
of our forgotten scene
have taken day jobs
or managed to tour Europe
with only their decal-covered
travel case of vinyl records
to spin in still-happening clubs,
like minstrels carrying
pairs of turntable needles
instead of guitars.
Either way, the hiss of tape
with layers of dated beats
blend disco and “Planet Rock”
with James Brown hooks
and hip-hop samples, mixed
into a tuneful soundtrack
that reaches out from my youth
to remind me of lost friends
and mythic parties.
I am no longer psychedelic
in the genius of 1994,
the one who rarely worked
and never paid bills.
I have evolved into a fact
of my bank statement,
a truth I awaken
each morning with a shower,
making ready to toil in the mundane
world of service.
There are ghosts of that time
in living rooms throughout Oakland,
where they haunt second-hand couches
and smoke the weed of that precious age,
joking about the dreamless years ago,
happily in the frequency of a moment,
the precious commodity of my people.
