Band T-shirts

I realize
I own a lot
of t-shirts
for bands
I don’t listen too
anymore

but the shirts
are artifacts
that show
I was once
someone who was
somewhat hip

someone who knew
people with guitars
and played them loud
and never thought
of finger picking
or turning down
their amplifiers

these shirts
stop me
from being old
no matter what
my joints say
or how early
I go to sleep

they are magic
time machines
like Doloreans
or phone booths

making me
hip again
despite my
tapered khakis
and worn out
tennis shoes.

Clubbing in January

It was 20 degrees
the wind swept
downtown streets
of all things warm

But it was Friday night
were people supposed to stay home?

The ladies walked in pairs
between clubs
down icy side-walks
in four-inch heals and dresses
hanging just past their waist

Heads turned
and in their minds
this was probably
the result of lust

But I’ve seen heads turn
in a similar manner
as I turned the wrong way
onto a one-way street.

Mission Folk Festival

I’m eating
an elephant ear
(fry bread
covered in cinnamon and sugar)
at a folk music festival
in the ruins of an old
reservation school.

These folk festivals, for all their celebration of diversity,
are remarkably similar. The same dred-locks,
smells, crystals, and arrhythmic dancing.
It’s easy to mock. But

with the full moon
sitting above a pink Mt. Baker
and the sun setting on the opposite horizon,
it’s hard to hold these hippies’
new-age sentiments against them.

The band on stage
is from somewhere in the South Pacific.
They’re familiar with things like reservation schools.

The patchouli stink is like incense
as the band sings about the regrettable results
of a great commission that lost it’s way.

It’s a strange setting for a festival like this.
A place where native culture
was systematically destroyed
not more than a generation ago.
And now it’s crowded with white people
wearing dream-catcher ear rings.

As I eat sweetened fry-bread
I wonder if all this is cultural misappropriation
or an awkward form of redemption.