Rock Is Dead
by Zachary Buscher
I was, or should I say me and my band were finishing up a Thursday night residency at Lester’s Lounge, which is kind of a misnomer because the place is a real dive, though it gave me some pocket change to get through the spring, and I’ve about hit the halfway point in my act when the yokels start chanting boooooo, and I respond Quiet, or I’ll cut short the denouement, although they probably don’t know what the word means and anyway I’m busy noodling through an extended jam cover of “Paperhouse” by Can, which if you recall is the opening track on their classic Tago Mago LP, hell, I told Lester we were a Kraut Rock tribute band since my grandfather was in the Hitler Youth with Pope what’s-his-name, and was always playing this sort of oompah music on his phonograph which might explain why I dig the motorik shit, but I’m trying to get into the Damo Suzuki finish when I hear a beer bottle whizzing past my right ear and I’m like, damn I’m taking fire, but the next thing I know I must have been hit because I’m in this hospital room with only my guitar and some German House music pumping out the walls, so I run, run, run until I make it back to Lester’s to get my cash but I must have been out a long time cause the place is demolished and they’ve built an abandoned warehouse over it for their little techno parties, kind of like how all the Hard Rock Cafes have converted to Happy Hardcore Cafes and the people I see move with such efficiency I think they might be robots (or Germans) and this, maybe, the future.
Zach Buscher always lives and writes, and occasionally teaches and serves as Poetry Editor for Sonora Review, in Tucson, AZ. Originally from the Wild West of Massachusetts, Zach is currently finishing up his MFA at The University of Arizona, where he is a Beverly Roger’s Fellow. Recent poems appear in 42opus and SHAMPOO.
