Hardcore Behind the band at the Flashback Lounge is a fireplace surrounded by an oval of bricks. A big fireplace Otik might have stoked at the Inn of the Last Home, but this is not Solace, and this is not Krynn. This is the last loud blast before school opens up again and all the kids, in theory, go to bed at a reasonable time. Skinheads and cute girls and boys in striped shirts take turns beating drums and chords and each other, but this is not metal, so the dwarves stand silent at their forges under the mountain. No wizards shine hourglass eyes from the corner. No magic staff glows blue to cause a riot. Instead, union men from Long Island, local boys from behind counters and desks, adjust knobs and pedals, and sing songs about the thrill of barely escaping. This is no Cataclysm, but the pit opens up, and someone almost touches the ceiling. It is not tomorrow yet. It is now, and the plywood cabinet behind the guitar player is spray painted in red: Wake up! This is a poem by Stacy Pratt.
Posted on: Sun, 03 Aug 2014 00:46:08 +0000
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