A poet salutes the "rock Goddess of pure kick ass fun"
By LISA KING | October 10, 2006
There are some moments in life that are forever crystallized in your heart.
Like that time when teetering down the sidewalk on a new bicycle your stomach flipped with each turn of your feet.
You felt the hot waxy skin of a single tear break on your cheek as you realized that YOU were doing it.
You were riding, you were flying!
And you didn’t need to look behind to see if someone was running along to catch you.
You didn’t even look to see if they were watching, because this was your moment.
Or when you got your first apartment.
You remember that dump you thought was a palace.
And so what if the toilet didn’t work so good, and the walls were so thin you could almost see that woman smack her kids.
None of that would ever change the feeling you got as you walked around for the first time in that empty apartment, still stinking slightly of fresh paint, and thought to yourself, it’s mine.
How about that time in a bookstore
when you opened a book of poetry and found yourself so entirely inside the lines that each word was your own face staring back at you.
And you didn’t know what to do cause nobody, nobody had ever opened you up like that before.
And when you went to the counter to pay for it you felt embarrassed like you were buying a porno mag with YOUR OWN NAKED BODY on the cover.
One that will go to dust with me will be that time in a small club, pressed sweaty and throbbing against 200 other people at the foot of the Rock & Roll altar.
Worshipping the rock Goddess of pure kick ass fun.
The woman who kicked the shit out of tradition.
The woman who didn’t give a damn ‘bout her bad reputation.
And there I was close enough to read her fucking set list.
Caught in the ripped black fish net of raw Rock & Roll energy.
Thinking it doesn’t get any better than this. And then it did.
She shook her head, shook that shag and IT happened.
One sweet sparkling drop of Rock & Roll sweat, St. Joan sweat, Joan Jett sweat, hit me on the right side of my bottom lip.
One moment frozen in time, MINE, just MINE!
There is no way to totally explain these moments to anyone.
We live them exclusively.
Our hearts hushed and bleeding, as the drops crystallize.
This is what we take with us when we go.
These moments of silent poetry that make up all of our lives.
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Topics:
Music Features
, Media, Poetry, Joan Jett
