every dreamer's got a skinned knee

EVERY ROCK STAR'S GOT A HEART PING
from MC Oroville's Answering Machine

Delbert shaves his chest hair to accommodate the heart machine. Thanks to MediCal he'll taste next summer's olives. Rock on. There's paperwork. He's already got a motorcycle license and another for the AK-47 he had to buy in Oregon--fucking Sac-town Democrats. Now he's got numbers that tell him when to plug in, how to hotwire ventricles. Delbert hangs drywall and rents a studio at the Inn. You've never met the people he loves. There's a girl at the mattress factory who won't return his calls. No returns on much. Rock steady. For his heart walloping turn as Count Lonely at the Birdcage Community Theatre, they spell his name wrong. Instead of applause they throw scones. Muffler coupons. Deepfried action figures. Bad tacos from Grande Burger, landlubber lobster from The Depot. I'm just putting it out there. I'm not saying call me when you're lonely. Whose heart, hands up, sucks a little? When you were just a boy, MC Oroville, full of goosebumps and frozen Snickers, I'm guessing someone told you rock on. Saddle your shit and ride her home. Rocktacular. Rockspastic. When a big flood yells hi, Delbert drywalls the whole town. He buys Buck's Lake. Delbert's Lake. Heart machine with his shirt off. There goes Delbert with his fucking rat-a-tat squirrel hunt. Never thought I'd see a happy man so loud. Hog parked outside the tattoo parlor, flossing ink. This one I got because it fucking rocks. This one I got because I'm fucking loaded, which is rock as fuck. Now every girl swiped at the Keg Room is due a new promise. Fuck your momma: you don't gotta stay there. You know the Inn? I'll buy you that shit licking Inn. Listen. No, listen to my mouth. That's just the thing in my chest, doll. It pings. That's how it works. I'm a rock star. I've got music up my ribs. No one can keep me quiet, not for long. No, baby. Don't even try.