Smith Songs (1999)

from “A Breviary
of Gutars”

The Present, looking
back on 1983
Eliade finds
linguistic ties
between the
art of the smith
& those hammers
of song: Greek
poietes “creator,”
“maker,” Sanskrit
taksh “to create,”
Old Scan. iotha-
smithrl “smith
song,” Rhemish
reimschmied
“poetaster,”
“rhymaster:”
Song is a trial
of fire by fire,
the furor
religiosis in
which cunning
blades, consonants,
guitars, loves
are wrought: But
how profane to
play rock n
roll, perched high
& far upon
our extended
adolescence,
thumbing the
father and fingering
our girls at
arms length: Clearly
the songs burned
hot in our care,
surprising us
with a raw real
numen hammered
down with power
chords and which
no amount of
partying could
dissolve: O
but we were supid
stupid: We left
those practices
looking to slake
our thirst in all
the cups we knew
to be empty:
Habit & laziness
conspiring to
blunt our blades
in inchoate
sheathes: too
many shots of
Old Bushmills &
bad metal bands
& far a.m.s where
it was just too
tempting to take
speed & coke &
keep going, our
fires now doused with
gasoline scorching
us so bad we
had to call
off practice the
next day: O
stupid stupid:
We had no
instruction: Rock’s
tutors are the
bloody balls
of the father
dripping beneath
the scythe: Rebels
when we should
hearken: I had
to learn my chops
on my own far
from the
community of axmen
because I wanted
to steal the
mother in their
bed: A lone wolf
with his original
songs: Like they
say in AA, there’s
nothing like an
egomaniac with
low self control:
Surely all the
artists are one-
eyed dwarves
whose silky sweet
voices belie the
seam of castration:
And where Norman
and I in practice
could gallop miles
over the forest
steppes of a
killerdiller like
“Waiting for the
Axe To Fall,” we
were blind suckers
for old loves
who walked away
because we weren’t
their type: Think
of all the midgets
who are rock’s
lions onstage:
Angus Young of
ACDC & Eddie
Van Halen & John
Cougar Mellencamp
& John Waite &
Robert Plant &
Brian Eno &
David Bowie &
Graham Parker:
Odin who was
master of forges
casting bolts down
below was
a true master of
song — old and
oneyed & a runt
too: Little blind
white penis, big
bellows: There’s
an oblique ledge
that tempers the
dross angers into
a fine silver
filigree of rage:
Wounds which find
a whetstone down
the neck of a
guitar: Out there
he comes forth
as a bold
stallion thundering
cross the sky
but inside it’s
just overbite &
premature
ejaculation: Norman
and I were a
couple of partying
dudes who made
music of it
for a while and
while we stayed
sheathed from
excess we could sing
well of it: Dipped
eventually back
into the bogs
of booze & pussy
& dope we
lost all trace
of song: What
a dope of a deal
but that’s the
way the master
forges us: Got
up today at
5:30 a.m. after
bedding at
1:30 a.m. following
a long night with
Jeff & Lisa
& my wife
in Orlando:
Exhausted as I
rose because I
must get up even
though I was too
tired to make
any sense here:
Fire up the
bellows, throw on
some kindling,
see what’s brewing
in the pot: Cat
Buster on my
lap & read some
old journal pages
& wonder why
the fuck I keep
doing this &
then start to
write: A man
starts a work,
the work starts a
work, the work
ends a man: Songs
in the summer
of ‘83 the
entire meaning
of thunderclouds
& annealing bolts
which flickered
out like adders’
tongues: Riding
the Uffington
Horse of Uther
Pendragon blind
and fooled into
thinking I held
a guitar: