by Nick Rossi

and you’re sitting on stage alone
just you
creaking in your chair
guitar on your lap
the chords in your throat and your fingers
taut and tense
spectral and vivid
the same old scratching scream
coming from your amp and mouth
bouncing off the walls
reflected back like the pain of another man
someone else singing your story at you

that’s the point of this place
with its lacquered chairs and laminated menus
people come here to have their feelings validated/eradicated
transfiguration in the vibrating sweat on the skin
of a tall glass begging to touch, wiped clean
people want an ode to Pain rather than a study of the choke
a certain degree of separation from the true sorrow
the unspeakable kind
the kind you can’t put to song
spitting tears at an arm’s length
bleeding beautifully from fingertips and vocal cords
so that it can entertain
can be something to smile and drink a beer to
something to be clapped for
something palatable

this place isn’t for the songs you sing softly
at the foot of your bed on Sunday morning

Nick Rossi is a co-founder/editor/designer at Sobotka Literary Magazine and Ursus Americanus Press. His work has recently appeared in Travelin’ Appalachian Revue, Julep Journal, Souvenir, SUSAN / The Journal, and elsewhere. He lives, works, and goes to graduate school in Chicago, IL.