Mark Andrews
music was our connection besides the blood
just the god scream of electric guitar saving man
a pantheon of gods winking yes, yes, with the backbeat
and the song testament voicing this is it, this is all
that can be expected, all that you can take with you.
we pulled into the drive of a young one shacked up
with another young one on a street with cheap-rent houses
solid red brick homes with green lawns and barred windows
where cops lived on the same block with crack dealers
where the retired held on with their old money and monthly checks
and the new money was made in new ways and taken away in the same.
after the introductions, the beers, the toasts to the old man, and a minor
argument with the lover girl, the van started and we pulled out as
Neurotic Outsiders jumped through the speakers, and small children
waved as if our passing was an event
and I felt foolish but just for a minute.
we ascended 2 flights of stairs to The Magic Stick
like Grande Ballroom
but here our hands were stamped with a mark
and the line was silent.
pool was part of the scene
we scored a rack of balls
making many processions to the bar on the floor vibrating
rolling with bass and drum and faces from the past appearing
Ancient Mariners and Salome dancers
and some were really there.
Street Walking Cheetahs pulled us into the fray
I bounced back from the stage to the outskirts
sucking on my beer and weaving
while the young blood moved to the front hard-on jumping with girls.
I retreated to piss where I heard the bass line of Looking At You
and hurried back to see MC5 Wayne Kramer with ax screaming feedback
when the singer leaped off the stage to let the masses chant into the mic
“Look at you…Looking at you babe,” with all rushing to be chosen
a mouth parade moving in with words amped only to be broken off
by the flailing singer
his eyes locked on mine with me as his mission
parting the waves of body parts with voices washing back in the undertow
till he got me with a mic upper-cut
popping my chin and resting it there
as I stood wooden like an oak with deep roots sucking at the Spring rain.
Mark James Andrews has had a full and checkered career. He has worked as a gravedigger at Sweetest Heart of Mary Cemetery, inspector at the now defunct Hamtramck Dodge Main Plant, Wayne County Jail librarian, and Library Director at a quaint metropolitan Detroit area library. “Looking At You,” will appear in his forthcoming book, Burning Trash, due out in Spring, 2010 from Pudding House. He has studied poetics with Ed Sanders, Fugs singer and 21st century bard. His poems, stories and book reviews have appeared in many publications. He is currently working on an investigative history in verse involving jazz and murder. Andrews can’t get enough of the live music shaking Detroit.
Mr. Andrews writes with the sensibility of a true poet and the authority of a man who has lived what he writes about. I look forward to reading his new book, BURNING TRASH.
Love the piece LOOKING AT YOU. Makes our pulse race. Ready for more from this D-town bard.
A great night full of gamble and chance; in your original scribbles I remember the place of origin being mentioned, Detroit’s Magic Stick. Has this become a hallucination?
Ready to see more writings on Detroit music and lore. Perhaps a poem about a night with Shane MacGowan, on the rare events that he is able to make the plane ride.
I’m excited with anticipation of the new book BURNING TRASH. The poem LOOKING AT YOU has left me hungry for more.
Hungry for more………
the tingle of anticipation is almost as stong as
walking in the door at slow’s
carry on
the wordsmith does it again!!
now how about some reflections on
the Willis, the Gardens, and Jumbo’s
I seem to recall you spent some qualty time there.
BG
…A Poet, Like a Penis, Making It’s Mark.
Like Brother J.C. Crawford once remarked: “Let Me See a Sea of Your $2.50.
As a noted garbage picker, I am looking forward to “Digging in Your Trash.”
Z.
Nice poem, Mark.
I remember those nights at the Grande. I turned 17 watching the Dead at the Grande. The cops dragged Pig Pen off the stage (singing Midnight Hour, of course) when they played beyond curfew.
Shouting from the rooftops
and idiots are telling to shut the pie-hole but can’t stop talking bout the lastest written efforts by mr.Andrews.
Hot off the presses avilable now.
something to think bout
congrats MA
Just happen to stumble upon your words. It brings me back to some good times and music. Glad to hear you wrote a book, you always had a way with words.