ERUPTION

For EVH

(This was originally published in Sounds of Southern California: Poetry of Music in 2022.)

Well, the sun has been out of sight for about two hours and the streetlights have given the dark its proper iridescence.

You think there is a horn blaring after you pop in Side One of the cassette but then it starts to melt away into a bass line, then some thick guitar and a yowl of a man with too much nervous energy to be contained.

And you are ready to rev the engine and start the night.

You don’t know how it will end but you think alcohol will be in the equation

And you don’t want to let the prospect of heavy petting to dominate your eyes or the vibes you emit. You do not want your lasciviousness to be so dominant.

Damnit, how does Diamond Dave pull it off? How did he become the coolest person alive? Or was it really Eddie as you hear that guitar solo. You knew he nailed it on the first take. Who was really the lead and who was the wingman?

Those are the questions you pondered as you drove toward some unknown destination and the promise of social interaction. Maybe a score of some type or another, and you’re not taking about the Yankees.

And even though you won’t get anything you think you have coming, you won’t think one second that it was because of anything you said or did, as you get ready for side two to kick in. The girls, the parents, the bosses, the teachers, the police, they just don’t GET you, man. They just don’t understand. Dave and Eddie, and Alex and Michael, THEY understand. They get it.

By the time Little Dreamer slips out of the speakers you might end up having to replace again you think, damn, you’ll figure it out one of these nights. You’ll get it together and you’ll be unstoppable. Anything you want ...

Until then you hope the keg and the wood paneled basements will bring the motherlode. You make a point to bring the tape with you and hope you can get the host to slip it into the stereo. Forget about Poison and Queensryche, you need to keep these vibes going all night long ...

That was then. Now the thoughts are more about mortgages and obeying speed limits and less about existentialism through public drunkenness and boomboxes. You know that there is going to be a tomorrow, and you limit your time with the devil to the bare minimum. But the wellspring of history can always be tapped for knowledge, and streaming Dave and Eddie and Alex and Michael on a clear night with the proper iridescence while looking for undisturbed asphalt is as good a lecture on the meaning of life as any I have ever heard.