4 of 30: 30/30 Challenge 2016

The Legend of Chops

Today is a poem day devoted to roadies
A particular roady
From a peculiar story
I heard from my father
When I was much younger
A roady mononymed Chops

I doubt very much that Chops was his real name
But it is the only name I will ever know him by
Like many a Texan, my father is known to spin a yarn or five
But he did live on the road for over a year
And some of his tales are true
Whether this exact one is
Or is not
Is irrelevant
Because Chops is a part of my father’s strange oral history
A part of his time spent as a touring bass player
For a band that ended in black and blue balls

To aid the imagination
We’ll set the story in a dusty, desolate affair
Somewhere in the middle of nowhere
In a desert or plains-land landscape
Sometime in the mid 1970’s
After a show one night a man,
Or men, depending on the variation
Slunk in with intentions
To make a few bucks off pawned instruments
Stolen from the very venue we find ourselves in
They made off with a few guitars and my father’s bass
The car was loaded
The engine was firing
As Chops coiled his python round the support between windows
The stunned driver did donuts
Wheeling out dustdevils in wake
As Chops the roady repeatedly, relentlessly
Beat the shit, blood, and teeth out of the fucker steering
The car stopped just long enough to eject the commandeered cases
Their return meant the release
And cessation of Chops’s constrictors upon car and operator
His focus not vengeance but loss prevention
Tracers of taillights indicated the bandits’ egress
As the knight, the warrior, the roady named Chops dusted himself off
Bloodied meat mits grasping handles
Though exteriors themselves a bit worse for wear
Miraculously both he and cargo were whole and unscathed
Just a day in the line of duty for a roady
The roady
The legend

While I’m sure some aspects were distorted
First by my father
Then by time, and my wonky memory
At the core the facts remain
Chops existed
And he was one mean sumbitch

Bloggy bit:

I grew up with my father’s road life relayed to me as cleaned up bedtime stories. This happens to be one of my favorites and I felt it was worth sharing. I might share another someday, like the time he was carjacked or the black-ice incident, maybe the one about my grandfather’s missing finger.. But that’s another time and another mood.

And now for a bit of introspection and distain (feel free to skip):

This is the first time I’ve really tried a story-style poem and I’m not sure how I feel about the results.. Wasn’t intentional, but what is? First attempts and all.

I’m finding the most difficult thing about this challenge is the intimacy of it. Posting something everyday means some pieces are better than others, some end up feeling unfinished, I’m not allowed my normal bonding and acceptance period so everything feels Kuato-ugly (Total Recall, ya’ll), and it just leaves me feeling really tits-in-the-wind naked. I sort of like it. Not my tits in the wind (get your mind out the gutter), the push. I’m finding new sources of inspiration (like this fucking owl outside. Loud and, given the cold, kind of spooky. Might do something with that. Might not.), I’m exploring styles and formats (as an uneducated douche I stumble upon things by luck, mostly), I’m learning how to assert my own voice (which is interesting, and a little unpleasant), and I’m forcing myself to write everyday. The negative of that last one being I am neglecting the other projects and artistic outlets I normally rotate through. Another unexpected facet of this challenge being the mastery of balance between disciplines and responsibilities. Breakin’ barriers and hearts. Well, personal barriers and my own heart, anyway. Low self-esteem leaves me certain of my unlovability and overall inadequacy. In summation, I suck but at least I’m really good at it (I said keep your mind out of the gutter!).

Alright, I’m done being an ass on the internet.

I promise to check in with little observations over the course of this challenge. Chart growth and all that.

Until we meet again,



About Moly

Average, boring, self-involved human. Twitter: @CultOfCocktails Facebook: facebook.com/MolyTov
This entry was posted in Poetry, Written, Written Work and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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