Farewell Frat Row

Down the road there’s an old row house

where I was raised a frat devout

at a time when the world had my collar tied

and I was too good to shout.

There I found a doomed revelry

looming from an Achilles’ heel

and pleasure seekers greeting treasure hunters

to make some kind of silver deal.

But where else could you find a scene like that

and be that kind of fellow in the bungalows,

unless you know just where to go to see this show

unfolding down the rows?

You’d be surprised by their insightful words

if you heard through all the clutter.

And you’d be amazed by the people you’d meet

if you’d stop turning up your shutters.

You could have found your orphan

if only you knew you wanted to

or had the miles mapped ahead of you

like everyone says you do.

You could’ve enjoyed anything

without your noose tied over our tracks,

unless you learned like me to free yourself and

escape these trash bin backs.

You’d wonder why our guards play offense

and why the class speaker’s a rat,

and you’d ask why they’re so passive and

if we all have to be like that.

But like a sacrifice for our stability,

Jude was a litigator in our debates—

a freelance all-around good guy—

a front door Bodhi by the gates.

Reserved for all, he’s just been saying,

“No blood’s spilled in a good brotherhood

unless this gated frat row we love is located

in the wrong neighborhood!”

But maybe Leo wouldn’t hurl his bricks at us

if we just unlocked our door or

maybe added some more windows ‘round here

and stopped pretending to ignore

the hunters on the outside waiting

to get shots off at us for sure,

because there’s fearful tears in our red eyes

like panned fish just off a lure.

And since we can’t see them clear,

why do we give them an excuse to take

away our vision just to shut us up

in this row of hills that hear?

Still Plato’s disciples lie down in shame,

passed out drunk on the couches

as Gorgias’s guys jump on disturbingly

and rob his hoody’s pouches.

And they say this room’s been keeping cool

but I’m choking on this heat

while stroking that snail shell’s ego

and joking about my cozy seat.

That’s quite an accomplishment but

only the corner punk and prophet’s proud—

for everyone else you see, we just repent

or we’re not allowed.

At midnight you move from Chi to Rho

to keep druggies off the grounds,

but the fireworks popping from nearby binges still fly,

so they’ll soon be making rounds.

And there Jude stands up by our stoop

to chew down a paper plant

with the troops marching in his teeth

to curl the sidewalk to his slant.

But as dusk bows down to serve him blind

at the corner of the streetside dim,

you averted eyes from his prized, poisoned limb

and then took up sin inside.

So claim this organism can’t be punished

with their rationales unsurpassed

and you’ll maintain the fantasy of Babylon’s “Mystery Girl”

when we’ve all been trespassed.

For the Beast has stolen the stronghold,

and he’s holding out in the natural way,

and he’s not here for the discussion

but is waiting to win the day.

So go down swinging in his theatre

for the class speaker’s threats, they prey—

will they not discourage your need for sin or

your eternal want of play?

You think it’s a cushioned room with no true exits,

a house you say is cocky and fey

with a group that no one of other tastes

could want to put into harm’s way.

But it’s really just an ant farm for the low and lower,

drunken and worn and bummed,

who fuck around and waste themselves

in a haste to play so numbed.

For we are all lonely and deprived of love

when at times we speak of hate, and so you say:

“St. Paul and Jack the Ripper live here man,

and to each his certain fate.”

But now outside the impatient gather

to fling water through our screens

and yet we still think they want to flush us out

when they just want us to come clean!

So why must we let our Judas stand out there

and dictate how we’re viewed?

Just because he abandoned the family

doesn’t mean that we should feud.

So what’s with the practice of this place

of the fellowship ritual warring on the run

that our brothers are to keep a grinning face

while we are put under a gun?

But in all that hot neon and booming bass,

going for the glory and the fame,

you still danced in the night and carried your cups

shirtless in the blaze of our parlor game.

You wore your shirts and rolled your ties

as if for us that’d be enough,

just to romp and yell and tell of

the party going down in the buff?

And when the nights popped on the rocks

with the whirly girls, bods and beer gods,

you’d still be passed out on the lawn, a slob

at dawn by anybody’s odds.

So pledge me, hit me, and punch in my nuts

and say it’s “all masturbation.”

But when we’re all gone, you’ll see it was fake,

and that what’s at stake was our probation!

You hazed me but did it faze me?

Did that make you feel tough?

You brought me in and taught me,

but who had all the good stuff?

Jude called the cops and pulled the stops

when you let him in and lost him in our haze—

so our ranks shot blanks and got hit by cranks

not even caught in our craze!

So turn on the black lights, blow up the sky,

toke the hood nights up ‘til blue.

Drink, drag, and think “Girls! Girls! Girls!”

but who’s taking the heat for you?

We were bros way back when,

we didn’t know where we were going,

but it’s time—throw it in or throw it up,

because man, I’ve been growing.

We had some times, but they all passed.

We had our blasts, but they never last.

And now our graduation will be coming up fast

and my future’s still so vast.

So have we all caved in to creature comforts

or will we still have more tomorrows?

Or will we someday laugh at this when

our kids bring home their sorrows?

Will we hide out in our broken bungalow

or will we camp down at the ridge?

Or will we topple the ridge wall in front of us

and with it build a bridge?

Will we have the courage of a sea to cross

to see our promised land?

Or will we shrink away in our drunken loss

and die in the cover of desert sand?

Will we remain a faceless horde

or slowly break apart our pride?

Or will we end up like every other group

and keep them thinking we got something to hide?

See, outside this brownstone of miscreants

that the Masons built long ago—

outside this Solomon’s Temple of the ages

where this suicidal cult hides low,

the prisoners of panic have

lost patience and rationality

and are storming our temple in hatred

and breaking our personality.

So I’m sorry guys I can’t come down tonight

to join in with your parties and games,

because when their fire shines its light at you,

your eyes just stay the same.

NEXT

--Farewell Frat Row