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Our Heavy Metal Life

Sometimes I like to imagine that my family
and I are a heavy metal band,
playing gigs in the southern states,
riding in a big tour bus that has skulls
painted on the side,
and a big decal of the grim reaper
wielding his scythe
on the rear windshield,
moving east on Interstate-40
out of Nashville,
still hungover but blasting the stereo anyway,
and hearing songs about leather jackets
and chains and drinking Jack Daniel’s
from a groupie’s shiny black boot.
I’m the singer and I play bass,
my wife’s the main songwriter
and plays rhythm guitar,
and my daughter shreds wickedly
on the lead guitar
while my son pounds the drums
like an animal in a zoo about to rip apart
the bars of its cage.
This is what weekends are like
for us—we keep moving until we get tired
because we’re on a mission
that’s best measured in decibels.
The songs we play will make you bang
your heavy heads.
You will rise before us,
our faithful minions,
like power chords from the rough mix,
and when we get home
we stick the leftover casserole
in the oven
then feast upon it,
because we are vicious birds of prey,
and every time I walk into the kitchen
I shake my fist and grimace because the dirt
on our floor is black.

Kresch_Ladies of the LAX parking Lot-600_tweaked

Ladies of the LAX Parking Lot, oil on canvas, 22″ x 17″, by Liz Kresch

–Jose Padua

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Painting Poetry

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