The Snare Drum is My Genesis, Part 1

in my beginning is my end 

before i knew
the drums
i felt the creek’s funky beat—
heard the sublime range harp
& Wild West whistle
the soundtrack of wood thump
wire click & real thunder 

in my book of music self
i could not embrace
the parlor piano nor my father’s
proficient clarinet. i chose
the way of the rebel
rancher’s daughter
my first drum teacher
was my mother
who could kick my ass
on the snare—rip out whip-crack
flams, five-stroke rolls, & ratamacue
stagings, not unlike a fearless
firm halter snap
against the chaos of animal bucking 

onto clean-cut kid with impish smile
high school issue traps
ca-chinkin’ at the Monterey
Jazz Festival, then playing my own
offbeat “&s” of 70s
disco & polyester stretch & that
one-night gig at the Capitol
there was Linda Ronstadt &
Jerry Brown hob-nobbing
in the Governor’s Ballroom
dosing my soon-to-manifest
brazen & affected rocker’s pose
cocaine silver cruise
beyond adolescent sighs &
athlete & cheerleader leaps
the timid slow dance 

& what of my tough sonofabitch
grandfather, his stoic grin & straight talk
about all this:
           yeah, i’ll go
            to my grandson’s show
            even though the other youngsters
            in that combo
            have flat-out hippie hair & look
            like they don’t work.
ironic, i could already outdrink
all my mates
but wasn’t so stupid as
to go and look like it… 

& what of court & country
disconnect, the half-breed
beau w/ his six guns
for the city—percussion: closest kin
to speed, horse sweat, & unboxed sky
the saturday night peacock
& herding instinct?

This poem is from a book-length memoir in verse, The Secret Cowboy:  the Life & Times of the Rebel Poet Beau Hamel.