Kurt Cobain

I can never forget finding Nevermind buried
in a bargain bin—K-Mart, 1998, late
century, Y2K two years away.
“Hits of the 90s” a glossed sign promised
& beneath half-priced Greatest Hits
lay an album still stuck to the gray-matter
stucco of my mind:  A grained MTV buzz clip,
distortion retched through a Fender Jaguar.
Before work, after school, I listened
to your bloodied voice sieved through
pulsing speakers—a scream,
a slack-tuned guitar, power chords churned out
like chum for a circling school.  Did you fall
for your own press?  Did you see
the way your words coursed through me,
sermons I repeated babbling like a fire-eyed
acolyte, the holy writ burned into flesh like a brand?
Did you picture van-door tire covers,
your face & death dates, you on velvet
at swap-meets, the VH1 Behind the Music
narrative?  Your face on Hot Topic t-shirts?
Tribute bands?  Biographies & biopics?
I memorized every line, tried to tease the truth
from Hello, Hello, Hello, How Low?  All apologies.
When you riddled words & clawed
the fretboard, did you see the thronged hoard,
the sharp-toothed flannelled chic?
The way we lined up outside the tour bus,
breathing your words:  Here we are now.  Entertain us.

Jeff Newberry is the author of A Visible Sign (Finishing Line Press, 2008), a nominee for the Conference on Christianity and Literature’s Book of the Year.  Recently, his writing has appeared in The Florida Review, Memorious, and Anti-.  He lives in Georgia with his wife and son.