Elan Mudrow
Smidgens
The Day The Music Died And They Were Singing
This town’s Elvis cannot strum a note
Even while the doughnut king
Leaves him plenty of strokes
Many go looking for the him
During the nighttime shanghai
But these ghost-like hijacks
Excite only hipsters and bruisers—and
Cute, off-hour baristas
Wearing their best lattes
To catch the ship of myth
Once back on the forgotten strip
Alcoholics look like pimps
The 99 cent lady scratches
Lottery tickets, chewing on mints
Yells from the gutter kids
Who pee in the laughing daylight
Children of insults and rip-offs
Sell newspapers to news crews
Keeping everything, perfectly askew
A crooked smile from the bookstore girl
Her windows all bashed in
She sells calendars losing value
While months become years
The trattoria boils millions in noodles
Hiring the purgatory of the aware,
Waitresses with yoga mats
Cheating Chi for tips
Amongst the deep-fried air
The mayor rolls out plans
Sketches of New Pantheon
City council sucks sugar tits
Shipped within a day from Amazon
While food carts form shanty towns
For the visiting team’s hangover
The mascot forgot the locker combination
He can’t pull his head off or unzip
Sitting in the Inferno, throws a fit
Gulping down painkillers for kicks
15 Comments on “The Day The Music Died And They Were Singing”
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Elan Mudrow 
You mean like Beowulf?
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I don’t know where you got that name. Most of the time I say that poets are crucial but poems are…just poems.
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Most of the time I say that poets are crucial but poems are…just poems. I don’t know where you got that name.
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a nice slice of pie. Favorite line: To catch the ship of myth
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A very colorful active scene.
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This poem keeps on giving. Read it three more times. Most of the time I say that poets are crucial but poems are…just poems. There are some poems that reach that crucial threshold. More than just poems. You’re very gifted, Sir Mudra.
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I don’t know where you got that name. Well, what’s to get? My real name is Jillian Wopping. 30 years ago I was known (in one of my music/comedy personae) as Count Spacie. When I see friends I knew from that era they call me “Count.” Is something freaky going on here? You mean schprockets, right?
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Intense. One of my favorite songs….
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I approached this one from a different angle. Yes, Cosmo G. Spacely. It’s all about sprockets.
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I’ve been dying to say that line to somebody. Truth is, I think this is one of your best poems, Elan. It’s got all the good stuff.
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So…the beast of the cosmos staggers, wounded by the weapon of its own life.
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Great ;poem/powerful/ and the images…
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deep-fried air… ❤
great piece!!!
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Awesome poem! What kind of life would we live without music?
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While wind drives the rust sideways and we sing a song of inner city everywhere or the wasteland of the franchised burbs in Bob Dylan’s grayer than a winter sky gambler’s chapeau.
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