My younger face was on a screen Above the bar beside the game. No sound, just lights across my jaw, A black shirt and a borrowed name. I watched myself miss every cue And lean too hard into the stand. The room applauded twenty years ago. Tonight, nobody knew who I am. My mouth moved first. I knew the line. The man beside me Kept perfect time. Dead channel, still coming through. I don’t live there. It still looks like I do. They kept the songs. They changed the view. Some nights I’m proud of them. Some nights I mute the room. Dead channel, bright and clear. A life can disappear And still be everywhere. A message came at 2:13: "You were the reason that one worked." I typed "thank you," erased the rest, Then read it twice because it hurt. The new guitarist stands where I stood. Better posture. Cleaner hands. He plays the ugly part correctly. I didn’t know the part had plans. They found the angle. They fixed the frame. The crowd still shouts The former name. Dead channel, still coming through. I don’t belong there. It still knows what I knew. They kept the songs. They made them new. I hate that it hurts me. I love that they’re good. Dead channel, bright and clear. A life can disappear And still be everywhere. There’s footage of us carrying cabinets Through snow behind the old rehearsal place. Nobody remembers what we argued about. I remember everybody’s face. I was there. I was difficult. I was useful. I was young. I made the floor shake Under songs I no longer get to touch. Dead channel, still coming through. I don’t live there. It still sounds like I do. Keep the songs. Keep making them move. Just don’t ask me to watch Like I’ve got nothing to lose. Dead channel, bright and clear. A life can disappear And still be everywhere.
