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Rated: E · Poetry · Music · #2072899
Drumming class.

Sometimes my thumb loses all feeling,
numbed by a number of drumming class
requirements.  It is as to this percussion set:
bass, snare, the cymbals, the backbeat and
in my mind, images of Buddy Rich and
Ringo Starr.

I sit with tense lips following the lead of
drum teacher taskmaster; like a drill instructor
in drumming infantry, charging music-starved
battlefronts with us novice troopers dedicated
and driven to becoming drummers.  Soldiers
with sticks, fatigued in the wrists yet ready
to bleed, if necessary, on the battlefield
of clash boom bang.

The head pounds of course; the neck tenses.
Ah, there is room enough for me!  I do not
douse any thoughts of failure in said music
sortie, this flailing of phalanges, this ache
of ulna and radius.  No, my arms shall
follow in spite of any discomfort, and
I shall declare victory in riffs as I,
armed with visions of being a
drummer, blast beats and
bones in backbeat’s war.


24 Lines
Writer’s Cramp Winner
1-23-16

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