We listened to “Interstate Love Song” the first time we strummed old guitars smoked our parent’s cigarettes ,and sang at Alan’s house screaming into the void “leaving on a southern train, only yesterday you lied!” We were going to do the damned thing! Play angsty songs at shitty bars in Keansburg get extorted over ticket sales by Jersey Shows. Write one solid ballad about some chick that got away and we’d be catapulted into stardom do blow with groupies, do the good dope like the rock stars. But this morning Weiland took a southern train to the unknown, a super highway to the cosmos or to the ethereal club where rockstars go when they die, drinking whiskey with Berry and Lennon listening to Hendrix shred on his guitar for eternity Where do rock stars go when they die? Are they reborn into musical notes strummed by fourteen year olds smoking cigarettes listening to old songs?
Or do they fade into nothingness like us all?
Down It The cup wasn't half full; it was half gone down my esophagus. And when the chemicals took hold –– a series of cerebral arks conjured images that would flood Mesopotamia as I searched through a violent deluge to find traces of God -- for me, survival was a few orange capsules washed down with whiskey. But even though my sober mornings burned like supernovas on my bloodshot retinas, self-induced oblivion was the only cure I could find to numb the darkness of my loneliness and isolation that lit up at night like a vacancy sign. But now that I've done all of that and then some, nothing has really changed except for the fact that I'm still alive and searching.
Bio: Damian Rucci's work has appeared in print and online in the Lehigh Valley Vanguard, Yellow Chair Review, Beatdom, IndianaVoice Journal, Dead Snakes, Eunoia Review, and other publications in both print and digital. Damian's work can be found athe following places Face Book http://www.facebook.com/dfrucci/andTwitterhttp://www.twitter.com/damianrucci/