Greatest Hits Gallery--Dayna C.

Dayna C's musical ekphrastics, titled "27," take up the lives, music, and loss of three famous rock and rollers who died at the age of 27--Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, and Janis Joplin/. She compresses narrative, music, and humor into the poems. Here are two of them. (I would've included youtube cuts, but the site seems to be down at the moment).

I. Hendrix

parks outside
the Samarkand
in a stolen car,
his unsupported
neck and head bent
like a broken guitar
strung like sinews
lolling. Dead
strains evict
the psychedelic
notes squatting
in his brain.

Fourth floor,
his undergrad
rolls with the earth
and space of a place
where they picked
young when God asked.
Real bad, I need
Jimi real bad.

What the wind
doesn’t cry
is any name
she recognizes.
Jimi drives by
in a Cadillac
with no license plates.




III. Joplin

She hit the good minutes
early and all at once. She’d quit
but lunch, milk and apple,
hadn’t fixed the craving
edging at her lungs.
Even a cigarette at this point
or the calculations of a hand
that held the hem above her
knees –the man who dealt
methamphetamines in Memphis,
where the crowd prayed she’d
make it, at least through Summertime.
They didn’t guess her sexy grit
was got by getting too much
before the inner gem could adjust,
facets gleaming back in her throat,
and had rusted over by the time
she went to sing that slinky
parting shot of a note.

Puce Exit

First Performance of the Rock ‘n’ Roll Band Puce Exit

by Kevin Stein

If puce were sound not color, 
    it would be us: Deep Purple,
though more confused and discordant, 

our guitars tuned in electric ignorance 
    of tone, key, each other—the word
puce derived from the Latin for “flea,” 

as appropriate for pests in the hides 
   of neighbors—our raucous weekend practice,
pubescent groupies lingering on basement steps, 

first on the block to show hearing loss, 
   first to wear paisley with polka dots.
And exit, of course, because music is 

our ticket out. It’s Peggy Wasylenski’s 
   fourteenth birthday party, a real gig,
her parents too cool, or simply so new 

to America they’re expecting something 
   with accordion or banjo, not the freight
we unload from my father’s blue Chevy: 

amps, mikes, drums, Christmas color wheels 
   for visual effect. We set up in the dirt
floor garage, our amps a wall of sound 

maybe knee high across the left bay. 
   Everything’s plugged into a quad outlet
above the single ceiling bulb. Orange wires 

cascade around us like a waterfall
     of blown fuses. We start, start over,
and start again, until we get right 

the three drumstick beat and launch into 
   an 18 minute version of “Satisfaction.”
I’m howling “I can’t get no!” even though, 

in eighth grade, I’m not sure what it is 
    I can’t get any of, but it’s something,
I am sure, I need as badly as any guy

every needed anything, like “voice lessons,” 
    the drummer screams. On break, we play
spin the bottle, Peggy flicking her tongue 

and me choking with surprise, with glee, 
    with adolescent resolve to improve
on the next round, which never comes. 

Police arrive to pull the knotted plug 
    and send us scurrying for the bushes,
guitars around our necks, though no one 

is drunk or stoned on anything other than 
    the rush of innocence soon to take a turn,
accelerating around the corner like Peggy, 

three years later, first night with license 
    and the family station wagon, her eyes
on the lit radio dial and not on the barber, 

my barber, trudging home in rain, the scissors 
    in his breast pocket soon to puncture
his heart beneath her tire’s worn tread.