Tommy
Published in Equinox (hotpoet.org)
https://simplebooklet.com/equinoxv2#page=1
Tommy can you hear me? (bom, bom, bom, bom, bom)
Can you feel me near you? (bom, bom, bom, bom, bom)
Tommy can you see me? (bom, bom, bom, bom, bom)
Can I help to cheer you? Oh, oh, oh, oh…
Tommy…Tommy…Tommy…Tommy…
It was a quiet evening after the U.S Capitol insurrection of 2021: the cusp of a new year, too young to live up to longings left over from 2020. When my head and heart were weary of talking heads and news videos, I channel-surfed; too lazy to scroll through lists of Netflix recommendations. Baby Boomers used to channel-surf when our brains needed a break: mind-numbing click, click, clicks until we saw something to pull us out of angst or ennui. Maybe it was divine providence that night guiding me to stop on a new channel – AXSTV 673.
There on the big screen on my refrigerator was the rock opera, “Tommy,” performed in 2017 by the WHO at London's Royal Albert Hall. Air rushed out of my lungs. Goose flesh enveloped my body. The concert held my senses hostage: sound and touch reigned supreme. The voices of Roger Daltrey and Pete Townshend had picked up some gravel over the decades, but magic was still in the music. It jolted me back to the birth of rock operas. For a few hours, my pacemaker could take a rest. My heart pounded just fine on its own.
* * *
It’s the late ‘60s in Houston’s Market Square – hippy wannabe heaven -- where clubs and shops sell anti-Vietnam war posters and jewelry and incense. The gem of Market Square is Love Street Light Circus and Feel-Good Machine – the temple on the hill bordering Buffalo Bayou, downtown. Vibrant scarves line the walls and hang from the ceiling, surrounding screens that display images from plastic overlays splashed with oil and paint pulsating to the beats of live bands. Patrons lie on pillows that carpet the floor and swoon to the groovy sounds and smell of patchouli. Maybe pot.
On Saturday nights, my college thespian friends and I adorn our bodies with beads and bangles. We wear costumes crafted from clothes found at Salvation Army. After grabbing swallows of orange vodka in the car, we drift into the square to absorb flashing lights, incense, cigarette smoke, and the blaring music of Janis Joplin, Jimmy Hendrick, the Doors. Sometimes, we lounge on the hill and later on the pillows inside the …Feel-Good Machine. Sometimes, we wandered into clubs and sway like sexy elephants. All of this is topped off by hot, greasy, Mexican food at an all-night cafe.
* * *
Now, in my kitchen, I breath in and out. Sing loudly. Feel my body vibrate with music and memories. Heaven.
A click of the door. The roommates return. Back to the present.
Can you feel me near you? (bom, bom, bom, bom, bom)
Tommy can you see me? (bom, bom, bom, bom, bom)
Can I help to cheer you? Oh, oh, oh, oh…
Tommy…Tommy…Tommy…Tommy…
It was a quiet evening after the U.S Capitol insurrection of 2021: the cusp of a new year, too young to live up to longings left over from 2020. When my head and heart were weary of talking heads and news videos, I channel-surfed; too lazy to scroll through lists of Netflix recommendations. Baby Boomers used to channel-surf when our brains needed a break: mind-numbing click, click, clicks until we saw something to pull us out of angst or ennui. Maybe it was divine providence that night guiding me to stop on a new channel – AXSTV 673.
There on the big screen on my refrigerator was the rock opera, “Tommy,” performed in 2017 by the WHO at London's Royal Albert Hall. Air rushed out of my lungs. Goose flesh enveloped my body. The concert held my senses hostage: sound and touch reigned supreme. The voices of Roger Daltrey and Pete Townshend had picked up some gravel over the decades, but magic was still in the music. It jolted me back to the birth of rock operas. For a few hours, my pacemaker could take a rest. My heart pounded just fine on its own.
* * *
It’s the late ‘60s in Houston’s Market Square – hippy wannabe heaven -- where clubs and shops sell anti-Vietnam war posters and jewelry and incense. The gem of Market Square is Love Street Light Circus and Feel-Good Machine – the temple on the hill bordering Buffalo Bayou, downtown. Vibrant scarves line the walls and hang from the ceiling, surrounding screens that display images from plastic overlays splashed with oil and paint pulsating to the beats of live bands. Patrons lie on pillows that carpet the floor and swoon to the groovy sounds and smell of patchouli. Maybe pot.
On Saturday nights, my college thespian friends and I adorn our bodies with beads and bangles. We wear costumes crafted from clothes found at Salvation Army. After grabbing swallows of orange vodka in the car, we drift into the square to absorb flashing lights, incense, cigarette smoke, and the blaring music of Janis Joplin, Jimmy Hendrick, the Doors. Sometimes, we lounge on the hill and later on the pillows inside the …Feel-Good Machine. Sometimes, we wandered into clubs and sway like sexy elephants. All of this is topped off by hot, greasy, Mexican food at an all-night cafe.
* * *
Now, in my kitchen, I breath in and out. Sing loudly. Feel my body vibrate with music and memories. Heaven.
A click of the door. The roommates return. Back to the present.