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 She
was such a mystery. My earlier efforts to understand Her love left me
wired and sprawling on the cold basement floor. She dished it out and
I ate it for I was hungry for Her sonic assault of Stratocasters, SG's
and Les Pauls from the well established Gods coming out of the air-brushed
eagle on the Ford Van as it overtook the hum of a 4-barrel 450-cubic inch
engine. I was the apprentice trying to keep up in four door Ford Maverick
hardtop with manual steering. I was but a hungry hobbit wanting to cast
spells in the land of the giant wizards of a land conquered long ago.
Just as I was polishing my newly acquired scepter, She changed. 
She pulled the dish to the next course, but I wasn't finished. She didn't
love me anymore. As I stood looking in the mirror with the scissors in
my hand, locks of my hair spewed about the ground like puddles of dead
rocker blood. It was ok because I needed Her back. I was willing to do
it if she would take me in again. Thankfully, She did.
It
was a formal affair full of spinning mirror balls and polyester, blow-dried
helmets of hair. Witnessing the inception and the reissuing of "the dance"
left me incapable of self-examination. It raised the seed of my stubble
and burned my loins. The roof looked like a constellation of multi-colored
stars. Participants became ingredients inheriting the thought of Her witch's
brew. She loved me again, for a while. That special itch overtakes you
and you've gotta satisfy your heart and try to make your own potions again....
 It
came in the form of another love disguised as hate from a fear transformed.
She came from England and invaded me like a new revolution. It was the
truth and it didn't matter how you danced, just as long as you did it
hard fast and long. She brought back the three chord wonder, kept the
dance and brought back more truth than Mom and Dad could ever fathom.
It was a self-righteous hate that spit in the face of the end of the world.
I felt it. I dressed the part, but missed the skull and crossbones of
Her love. She rejected me, even though I burned for the same poverty-filled
anger that put various colored pills on Her training table...
Apprentice
again, standing in the middle of the street, the middle of the room, between
the country and the city. Between loves, between romanticism and reality.
No one understood my hair or rageful pride or low self-esteem at the 7-11,
laundromat or mall. I had to learn what I missed.  Cut
to Bookies, a punk bar with no sign, Detroit;1979, a woman named
Aviva suggests I drink something called a "chartreuse" made
with fermented ingredients by monks in France. The Band takes the stage
in secondhand suits, their faces made up with face paint to look like
lacerations and bruises, their set completely blistering; not one guitar
solo. The word "dance" doesn't apply. Seizure, seizure, SEEEIZURE!!!!
Three chartreuses later I vomit in the parking lot. This is rock-n-roll.
Am I there yet?. Shall I pray some more? Oh God! Here it comes again.
I pray. Is She loving me yet?
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Click the titles below to download MP3 clips from Don's group, circa 1988-1992
"Kuru"
"Time
Capsule"
"Institutionalized"
"Sunsign"
"Garbage Picking"
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