trying to find
that sugar sweet.
But, it wasn’t sweet.
It was salty
bitter
and it coated
my mouth
in numbness.
I woke up
in the ICU
frightened
and embarrassed
by my father,
who sat by
my bedside
crying
in handcuffs.
Hollywood Report
Rutherford Morrison has kept rock alive for twenty-five years.
His band, The Great Whatever, is credited with
introducing a new flavor of
Hard Rock to America with the release of their triple-
platinum album,
The History of Headaches. Even after an acrimonious
band breakup,
Morrison continued to have an illustrious solo career,
selling thirty million albums worldwide.
His music has lasted the test of time . . . until now.
Eight years ago, he was arrested for reckless
endangerment of his child,
and he hasn’t released an album since.
Most recently he’s managed three DUIs, and a drug
overdose
that almost sent him to a rock-star reunion with
Kurt Cobain and Amy Winehouse.
Rutherford may not have much time left before
he falls flat on 12:00. Midnight can be so cruel.
Who doesn’t feel sorry for his kids,
left answering the hard questions, like
How does it feel
to be the daughter
to be the son
of a fallen rock star?
Who Am I?
I am
the wretched son
of a poor
rich man.
I do not hate
my life.
I am not like
Sebastian Carter,
who found
his father kissing
his girlfriend
and now hates
his life.
My life is, hmmm,
inconvenient.
But
if it weren’t for Chapel . . .
Are You Sure They Aren’t Coming Home?
Chapel and I are about to take flight,
two souls on fire
burning through sacred mounds of
fresh desire.
Our lips are in the process
of becoming
one
in her hammock,
like two blue jays nesting.
Feeding each other
kisses of wonder.
I’m sure, she answers.
Hands of curiosity.
What are you doing?
Kissing you.
Slow down, Blade.
Why?
Woo me.
Woo you?
A song.
Come on, babe, we don’t have time for that.
But we have time for this? she says,
puckering her lips, and
hypnotizing me
with eyes blue
as the deep blue sea.
Those Eyes Will Be the Death of Me
My gravestone will read:
Here lies a young man
who died inside
the gaze of a woman.
I watch the river
in her eyes gallop forth
fall into them
dive into them.
She smiles.
Those eyes.
I can’t escape
the depth of them.
The song has ended,
but the melody still rings
from her mouth.
I can’t hear a word.
I’m lost
in these two comets
that move across
my universe.
I remember
the first time
she looked at me
like this.
Two years ago
before he hit
an all-time low,
Rutherford threw
one of his
Hollywood Rocker House Parties
which became Storm’s
pool party
SLASH sweet sixteen
SLASH get-all-the-kids-at-our-school-drunk-so-they-
could-listen-to-Storm’s-mixtape-and-think-it-is-hot
party.
While they dove deep
in shallowness,
I found a quiet corner,
a vintage Rutherford Morrison guitar
took it off the wall
and started playing
American Woman
and any tune
with a hard groove
to soften
the dull.
Minutes
or an hour
went by
before I looked up,
and there she was
sitting
in the chair
across from me,
her legs
with dancer calves
entwined
like twin yellow flowers.
Her skin, amber sun.
And those pretty blue eyes
just watching me
like she cared.
Amazing. Keep playing, she said. Don’t let me interrupt
you. And
then she got up,
sauntered off
glancing over her shoulder,
leaving me
thunderstruck.
Those eyes.
Those blue eyes.
Later, I bumped into Storm
in the kitchen,
making grapefruit
and vodka smoothies
for her already drunk friends,
and she introduced me
to the new girl
in school.
Those eyes.
My name’s Chapel, but you can call me American
Woman, she said, winking
at me.
Your brother’s a musical genius, she continued, at which
Storm laughed.
Yeah, he’s a legend in his own mind!
Chapel winked
at me again,
and just as I was
about to turn
and leave,
she reached
in my pocket,
grabbed my phone,
and took a selfie
then texted
herself
the photo.
That was the moment
I knew.
And I stayed up
all night
writing a song
about it.
Trance
Well?
Huh?
Where’d you go?
Just thinking.
About what?
I don’t know—everything, graduation, family. I’m just
worried.
Family sucks.
So true.
Is he coming to graduation?
Yep. He says he’s been clean for nine days.
That’s great.
Yup.
Tomorrow, this time, you’ll be a college freshman.
Actually, I’ll be in-between. No longer high school, not
yet college.
No longer, not yet.
At least we’ll be together every day then.
You’ll have me whenever you want.
That’s why I love you.
Okay then, sing my favorite song, please.
Chapel, I really don’t feel like—
Blade, are you my heart?
Uh, yeah!
Then sing to me . . . Van would have.
Let’s not talk about your untalented, nefarious, wack
ex-lover.
Chambers
if I am your heart
imagine me inside
beating, pumping, loving
Relentless
Don’t haiku me, Blade. I want an epic.
I don’t have my guitar.
You always have your guitar.
It’s in the car, but I—
I’ll get it, she interrupts, jumping
off the hammock so fast,
I tumble and eat dirt.
Excuse Me
Excuse me
I mean, what did you say?
I’m sorry
I’m just a little blown away
’Cause your eyes . . . Oh, your eyes.
Excuse me,
Didn’t quite get that
You talking to me?
I just gotta get my breath
’Cause your eyes . . .
Your eyes, they mesmerize me
Yes, your eyes hypnotize me
Your eyes are . . .
Bluer than the deepest part of the deep blue sea
Excuse me
I don’t mean to intrude
I’m sorry
Your eyes are too blue
Forgive me
I just wanted to be sure
Your eyes, that shade.
Isn’t that what they call azure?
’Cause your eyes . . .
Your eyes, they mesmerize me
Yes, your eyes hypnotize me
Your eyes are . . .
Bluer than the deepest part of the deep blue sea
I’m sorry
I don’t wanna take your time
I have to say this
And I hope that you don’t mind
Your eyes, they mesmerize me
Yes, your eyes hypnotize me
Your eyes are . . .
Bluer than the deepest part of the deep blue sea
Excuse me
I don’t mean to intrude
I’m sorry
Your eyes are too blue
Forgive me
I just wanted to be sure
Your eyes, that shade,
Don’t they call that azure?
’Cause your eyes are mesmerizing
Your eyes are hypnotizing,
Your eyes are truly drowning me
I’m drowning in a blue that’s way bluer than the deep blue sea
’Cause your eyes . . .
Your eyes are mesmerizing
Your eyes are hypnotizing
Your eyes are drawing me to you
© BLADE MORRISON
She Melts Right in Front of Me
That was beautiful.
Thanks.
It really makes me feel special when you play for me.
You are special.
Here’s your phone. Come kiss me.
What are you doing with my phone?
You left it in your car.
Oh. Thanks.
Why is Principal Campbell blowing your phone up?
Huh?
Come here, babe.
Let me ask you a question.
Enough talking. Hurry up and kiss me. They’ll be home
soon.
Aren’t you sick of sneaking around?
The alternative sucks.
True.
We should just run away.
I would do that in an LA second. I love you, Chapel.
Then come over here and let me mesmerize you.
First, let me check my phone. Dude left me like five
messages.
Seriously, Blade. Now you’re all patient.
Just gimme a sec.
Voice Mail
Blade, this is
Principal Campbell calling
you about twelve hours
before you march
across the stage.
Congratulations!
You’ve overcome
some serious odds,
and I’m sure
your family is proud.
So, I’m calling because
I’m afraid that
our valedictorian
Alice Johnson
has been bitten
by a mosquito,
and her face
has blown up
the size of
a cantaloupe.
Thusly, she refuses
to stand
in front of
the graduating class
and their families
to deliver
tomorrow’s commencement speech,
which means
the salutatorian
will have to fill in.
What do you say?
Salutatory
Blade! WHAT? You’re going to deliver the speech! I’m so
proud of you. Of us.
Of what? I haven’t written anything yet. So don’t be too
proud.
You’ll be amazing.
Not if I don’t get home and write the thing.
Stay here with me. I can help you.
Write an entire speech before your parents find us? Not
likely.
Who says it has to be a speech. It could be a song.
Hmmm. That might be cool.
You could write one about me.
. . . .
(I laugh.)
(She pouts.)
I’m serious.
Babe, it may not be the audience for that kind of love
song.
But it would be the most romantic thing you’ve ever done
for me. And people would be talking about it for months.
Let me think about it. But first, I should really get home
and actually write it.
Fine.
Just know I won’t sleep one millisecond tonight because
I’ll be thinking about you the entire time, Chapel.
Okay. Make us all want to sing with you, babe.
I grab
my guitar
and kiss her
goodbye.
Tell your dad to pray for the salutatorian, just don’t
mention his name.
I wonder if anyone has
ever delivered
a graduation speech with
a six-string guitar?
Close One
I pull out of
the driveway,
onto the street,
and duck
as far
as I can
’til I’m barely able
to see
her father’s black Mercedes
turn the corner
and pull into
the driveway.
Whew, that was a close one.
Secret
Chapel’s father
forbade her
to see me
after Rutherford
got arrested
again
last year,
for crashing
into a stop sign
inches away
from two kids
crossing the street.
He was lit
and careless
and it was all over
the news.
He is runnin’ with the devil.
They will destroy themselves.
They will not destroy you.
This is not up for discussion.
You. Are. Never. To See. Him. Again.
And so we sneak.
I Can’t Say I Blame Him
My family
stands for
too much
and not enough.
Too much celebrity
not enough dignity.
Too much excess
not enough kindness.
Too much Yes.
Not enough No
to drugs
to crude behavior
to breaking the law
to rock & roll.
Too much.
Not enough.
So yeah . . .
we sneak.
Texts to Chapel
10:32 pm
I made it home.
Just hours
to spare bef
ore
10:32 pm
I either nail it or
embarrass myself to death
and walk off the stage
10:32 pm
never to show
my face again.
But it’s just a song, right?
10:33 pm
Can you believe
it’s almost our
big day?
10:35 pm
I know I won’t
get to see you except
from a distance.
10:36 pm
But I’ll look for you
10:36 pm
from the stage
when I perform
a song about
10:36 pm
how we are the chords
that make music
the language of love.
Conversation
Blade, whatcha doing?
Does anyone knock anymore?
An open door is an open invitation. Sounds like you’re
struggling.
I am. Writing a song for graduation tomorrow.
I heard. Congratulations, little bro. How’s it coming?
It’s not.
You could write about love.
Everybody wants me to write about love.
You and love songs go together like Mick and Jagger.
You’re stupid.
I’m serious. Write a love song.
I need some inspiration.
What about Mom?
What about her?
Maybe you could write a love song about her.
. . . .
But not on that busted guitar, get the one Dad gave you.
The Bridge
Rutherford gave it to me
in grand fashion
on a black velvet bench
for my thirteenth birthday—
a custom-built
Eddie Van Halen
Frankenstrat,
made of
body—ash
neck—maple,
with pickups tweaked
by EVH himself.
Legend has it
that Eddie was gonna give it
to some king
in Africa or something,
but my dad convinced him
to gift it to me.
And that’s real cool,
I get it, but
what mattered
to me
was that when I strummed,
it sounded
like Mom
laughing.
So I named her Sunny,
after my mother.
And there hasn’t been a day,
no matter how crazy
or wicked
or cruel,
that I haven’t held her
knowing it’s
the bridge
that connects
heaven
and earth.
Solo Page 2
