April Poetry: Bread, Drugs, and Rock and Roll

Poem #12 for National Poetry Month

CW: Mentions of Suicide

This poem’s origins date back to April 8, 1994. The day Kurt Cobain’s body was found, and the news was broadcast from radios around the world. I heard the radio DJ, audibly shaken, announce the discovery as I was driving home from work. One of my planned errands on the way home involved a stop at the Wonder Bread outlet where people could buy day-old bread and short-dated Twinkies for cheap. (Do Twinkies ever really expire? Are they even food or just food-adjacent?)

This was originally published in the anthology Lost at 27: Musicians, Artists, Mortals. This is my statement to accompany the poem:

"When I first learned about the “Lost at 27” project, I immediately knew Kurt Cobain would be the subject of my poem because I already had a half-written a poem about the intersection of our lives and deaths.  Kurt and I had many things in common – both born in 1967, divorced parents, dropped out in our senior years, homeless as teenagers, artistic, and overly sensitive to life in general. We also both played guitar left-handed although we wrote right-handed. His songs were his expression of pain just as my poems were for me.  Even our attempts at leaving this life had parallels, although I went first with Jack Daniels and sleeping pills while he chose champagne and Rohypnol a year later.  The synchronicity ends there.  I’m still alive because I accepted help.  Intervention and support save lives.  If you need help, dial 988 for the Suicide Hotline."

Bread, Drugs, and Rock and Roll
 

Radio static with heart-breaking news –
rock star found dead.
I sat in the parking lot
of the wonder bread store,
5 loaves for a dollar,
even stale bread has nutrition if you’re poor. 
Tears pooled in my eyes,
sobs as I ate my steering wheel,
biting against a silent scream.

The sweet sadness of his music
wrapped me in a sugar-spun sarcophagus of pain,
melodies prying loose the tarry secrets 
hidden within my own heart-shaped box,
inviting me to drown with him
in the poison swallowing his soul.
Dead of a self-inflicted shotgun blast – 
So young, he and I were the same age,
now he is eternally 27.

I had thought of him when I made my own attempt,
choosing his song “Lithium” for my funeral.
Life loves a slap from the brute hand of irony,
the name of the song was the name of the drug
forced on me after that desperate night.
Now, double his age, 
I wonder how his years might have played out,
grateful to be granted the gift of 
living another lifetime.


Originally Published in Lost at 27: Musicians, Artists, Mortals anthology by Cicada song press
November 30, 2024