Jukebox demons keeping me
from the songs I want to hear.
The songs I want playing in my
head to help me get through the
long days, the long nights, the long
lulls between loves.
Crowded around the old Wurlitzer in
my brain, the leather jacketed demons
box out anyone that tries to get close
and pop in a dime. (Because the jukebox
in my mind doesn’t take quarters.) The
oversized jaws of the jukebox demons,
slick with glistening drool and blood,
grin with bullying anticipation as I
They won’t let me get by their swinging
tails, they nudge me and shove me and
ask, “Where do you think you’re going shrimp?”
And I just stand there and stutter and mutter
and hold my dime out in front of me like some
ancient talisman of protection.
They laugh, and poke each other, the jukebox
demons. They turn their backs to me and continue
to play songs that no one knows or likes, or just
keep the air empty of any songs at all. They are monsters
of the highest degree. They are cruel in their petty
punishments. In their ridiculous bullying.
I know they’ll grow weary at some point, and then I can
get to my jukebox and play songs to lift me up, to lighten
my mood, to give me the energy I need to get through it,
but for now, they’re leaning against my jukebox, smoking,
fixing their greasy pompadours and talking about
some famous woman’s breasts and what they’d like to
do to them. They’re just jukebox demons after all. No class.
And eventually they will get bored and go to the library to
pick on the other squares in there.