Bring Me the Goblet Once More, and Let Me Drink of It

I want real rock and roll again. I want the sweaty, claustrophobic bar with scantily clad everyone. I want the spit and the blood; I want it to rain champagne and Alka-seltzer. I want the taquitos being hawked from short Latin grandmothers who weave through crowded venues with their coolers and nimble grace. I want my eardrums ringing, the mic stand between my legs, the screaming people. I want to wake up and see an image of Iggy Pop in my toast and call the Sun and the Guardian and give them a real miracle. I want to count the injuries on my deteriorating, soulless temple and roar with laughter. Then, after a moment, I want to do it all over again.