[Rick Mullin]

Drummer

The metal you reach, the moments you crash,

the muscle you lay into playing for cash,

the feelings you hope you might one day express, 

your gift and your eminent grab (more or less)

determine the sprawl and the shape of your pocket,



the tilt of your swing, the jazz in your rocket,

the shine of your skin, the height of your chair,

the twist of the keys on the side of your snare,

the hole in your bass, the decades of wear

and a feeling that comes from the-devil-knows-where

with a mass dissolution of most of your gear,



the darkness of dancers, the silence you find

in the hall of confession, the back of your mind,

the pace of your heart, the staggering light,

the small set required for keeping it tight

and an echo of lines you may one day recite

in the studio space of the oncoming night.




___
The top of the poem was:

Life



In the beginning, you are surrounded by drums. 

Hundreds of tom toms. As many cymbals, 

some within reach, casting sunlight and

shadow on the silver, red, glitter and blue

pans and cylinders before you and the network 

of pedals far (at least for now) below your feet.

Piles of sticks and brushes. Clubs and hammers,

violence and joy. An almost immediate rhythm
as you pelt the white drumhead at you belly,

the sharp round and singular snare.



Whatever you claim, you will add it from there. 

Whatever you drop, whatever you tear

or shatter or crack,

what follows you back

will amount to your kit, or your set or your stack.





Line 4: eminent was self-conscious

.