Solo

There’s this dream

I’ve been having
about my mother
that scares
the holy night
out of me,
and each time I wake
from it
I’m afraid to open
my eyes
and face
the world that awaits, the
fractured world
that used to make sense,
but now seems
disjointed-islands of possibility
that float by-like
a thousand puzzle pieces
that just don’t fit together anymore.
So I think of Chapel
and grab hold
of the only other thing
that matters.
My guitar.

Strings
Mom used to play
this game
on the tour bus
to help us
go to sleep:
Who’s the best?
We’d go through
every instrument:
piano, drums, horns.
Our favorite was guitar.
My sister, Storm, always said
Eddie Van Halen was her favorite,
probably ’cause
he once made her
pancakes
at 4 am
in a Marriott kitchen.
Ask Rutherford and
he’d say,
I’m the best in the world,
I’m outta this world.
Electric soul brother interstellar man,
which is ironic because
he was trying to quote
Lenny Kravitz, who
Mom would say
was in her top three
along with Jimi Hendrix
and me,
just to piss him off.