ONE
The Demise of a Southern Shed-Punk Band
Our then-guitarist’s father punched his son in the teeth
when his son involuntarily smiled after getting in the car
“wet” like a left-out trash can with no lid.
We had searched the city and found him in an alley,
near Marion Street, where we had played our first show.
TWO
And the Start of a New Sound
I knew the jacket on her shoulders well—
it was not mine.
Hadn’t seen our guitarist in a week. Things like this
kill a band. And out of the dirt in the cracks
of an untiled floor trebled a new band (new sound).
THREE
They Were Gonna’ Let us go but I Dropped the Switchblade
We left the drums in the shed, backpack full
of MD 20/20 clanging, and plugged our amps in
in-front of the courthouse. Our small town had the jail
attached so the cops were on us before we finished the first song.
Cuffed one and, like lifting the bread loaf, we all scattered.
FOUR
In the Cul-de-sac the Day Derrick OD’d
Derrick’s mom had found him and there was candy in the streets and the stretcher
smeared bubble yum like it was chalk before the EMTs ramped the sidewalk
and later brought Derrick out the house in a body bag. D’Angel, Jake, and I lay low
that night tricking Derrick’s neighbor’s house with raw and hard boiled eggs,
faces in the dirt every time the neighbor came out with a German Sheperd and a gun.
Michael Hammerle
Michael Hammerle is completing his MFA thesis at the University of Arkansas at Monticello where he has taught composition. He holds a BA in English from the University of Florida. He is the founder of Middle House Review. His fiction has been published in The Best Small Fictions 2017 selected by Amy Hempel. His prose and poetry has been published in Split Lip Magazine, New World Writing, Louisiana Literature, After the Pause, the Matador Review, and many more magazines. His writing has been a finalist at American Short Fiction, Hayden’s Ferry Review, and Prime Number Magazine. He lives and writes in Gainesville, FL.
The Demise of a Southern Shed-Punk Band
Our then-guitarist’s father punched his son in the teeth
when his son involuntarily smiled after getting in the car
“wet” like a left-out trash can with no lid.
We had searched the city and found him in an alley,
near Marion Street, where we had played our first show.
And the Start of a New Sound
I knew the jacket on her shoulders well—
it was not mine.
Hadn’t seen our guitarist in a week. Things like this
kill a band. And out of the dirt in the cracks
of an untiled floor trebled a new band (new sound).
They Were Gonna’ Let us go but I Dropped the Switchblade
We left the drums in the shed, backpack full
of MD 20/20 clanging, and plugged our amps in
in-front of the courthouse. Our small town had the jail
attached so the cops were on us before we finished the first song.
Cuffed one and, like lifting the bread loaf, we all scattered.
In the Cul-de-sac the Day Derrick OD’d
Derrick’s mom had found him and there was candy in the streets and the stretcher
smeared bubble yum like it was chalk before the EMTs ramped the sidewalk
and later brought Derrick out the house in a body bag. D’Angel, Jake, and I lay low
that night tricking Derrick’s neighbor’s house with raw and hard boiled eggs,
faces in the dirt every time the neighbor came out with a German Sheperd and a gun.
Punk Noir Magazine 
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