C is for Charlie whose hair caught on fire

C is for Charlie whose hair caught on fire
04/07/2008 - National Poetry Month post #7, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six

In the garage at Marrow Manor,
between the two Bentleys and off near the Porsche,
Charlie had set up his big, paper banner
announcing his band's name, "The New Kings of Borscht."
He painted it up in hot pink and umber
and hung it with string from the rafters above,
but he didn't realize that he couldn't look dumber
while dancing around in that one sequined glove.
The glove made it hard, he had to admit,
to play the right chords during "Stairway to Heaven,"
but he knew his new image would be a big hit
even though he was just about to turn eleven.
He'd put up his flyers around the whole town,
and all the young girls had promised to come,
so he planned a huge show that would bring the house down
and bought a sound system to make them all numb.
He practiced and practiced and practiced some more
until the blood seeped from his raw fingertips,
and he jumped and he wailed all around the whole floor
with the piece-de-resistance his triple blackflips.
But the thing that would have them in wild emotions
and throwing their training bras down at his feet
was the loud pyrotechnics and pounding explosions
he set up to coincide with each beat.
When the concert time came and his band was set up,
and all of the priceless autos removed,
Charlie emerged in his silly getup,
but nobody cared as the band jived and grooved.
Spectacular, awesome--they were gnarly and rad,
and seismologists measured it at four-point-six,
but then a mistake made the whole thing go bad,
when out of the drummer's hands slipped both his sticks.
They dropped to the floor and set off a reaction
that caused all the fireworks to go up in flames,
and the drummer dissolved in a brief liquefaction
while Charlie kept strumming at "Sweet Baby James."
Then the sparks caught the banner, and down it all fell
and it set Charlie's hair a spectacular blaze
and he thought maybe he'd used too much hair gel
as the room disappeared in a smoke-blackened haze.
Then the fans all bought tee shirts and wandered away,
and the firemen came and hosed down the whole place
and shooed off the groupies that wanted to stay,
with pepper spray, tear gas, and even some mace.
And when it all cleared, the two things remaining
were that dumb sequined glove and a singed guitar pick,
but not one single fan had left there complaining
'cuz that quick-fingered Charlie could sure play a lick.

One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.