Shonen Knife, Live


There's a kitchen in the basement
of Maritime Hall, with a place
to put your feet up, read the paper when the
meal is
done.
Put the great, grey bridge at your back, walk
down First Street,
through the door wedged
open with a rolled-up magazine,
down stone steps.

The
guy behind the counter
puts an extra piece of chicken on my plate,
gives me lots of rice and beans. Only
us, so he
rings me up for just a couple of bucks, says
forget about the voucher, man. Gets himself
a plate, sits down, wants to know
how it taste, man, how it taste. All day, cooking.
Hella
food, man. Hella food.

Chicken, hot and falling from the bone, slick
and salt. Rice and beans, steaming,
and the skin of the beans splits open
in my mouth; inside
tasty, fragrant, soft.
Coffee, heavy porcelain cup. I smell
the coffee and the ragged, rich exhaust still
in my jacket, in my hair. My fingers are
warm, now, and the tip of my nose and my cheeks
are warm.

Through
the backbasement corridors, "Daydream Believer,"
the middle registers, through a spectral filter
of stairwells and stone. I follow and climb. The beat
grows crisp,
doubletime power chords,
snappy underbase,
harmony, energy. After the show, when

I shake Naoko's hand, it is
a small hand. She signs my ticket and gives me
her pick. Her
pick is the colour of rust,
the colour
of my hair.





JDP 98/08



















Copyright John D Porter © 1998



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