This One Time, At Tourlife Camp: A Stuck Inside Poem, Day 15

One time, I played a show

in Athens, GA at the Go Bar,

and it was nearly empty

besides one old dude

with a lot of military experience

who kept asking from his balls,

“What are your goals?”

I’ve serenaded bartenders

before, so I figure fuck it.

I’ll play my heart out

for Sergeant Slaughter

and whoever else walks in

to this empty bar on a Tuesday.

Two songs in and a group

of humans sit down to chill.

I don’t think anything of it.

Chilling humans gonna do

what chilling humans gonna do.

After my set, my friend Scott says

something to the effect of “Hey,

you wanna meet Michael Stipe?”

And I said, “What?”

And he said, “From REM.

He came in during your set.”

The only thing I wanted in life

that night was the approval

of the guy who wrote “Everybody Hurts.”

Paige Beller handled it like a champ

and chatted with him and his friends

and even sold him a CD.  I chugged

Pabst by myself on the patio

like a man-child or a frog on a log

savoring a fly and never said hello.