Got no spark, kid. No flare. It’s all who’s who in the parking lot anyway. And I, with my left wing shoved down my throat and a constant gristle in my throat from all the smoking. Choking. Blowing haze in the atmosphere. Puffs of cumulus clouds and visions, haunting recordings and Winehouse in rooms of windows of rainy Pacific Northwest with boat launches and I might find myself so lucky or haphazard to be going north to shores of those nostalgic gypsy daydreams and memories of naught a happy embrace. Liquor bound and woeful but romantic all the same. And at the first of those nights when I heard of sunflower sutras and the old Frisco dharma bums, angels of the trains. Carrying my road bound mind and hunger for the western trees to keep safe and sane from the oncoming fury of diesel oil tank and trains of the Georgia Pacific railroad and the north and the coal of China’s red-hot factories. Oh cold pit of remorse and all, bemusing to watch and turn away and back again to the perpetual contraption, contracting and extracting the core to fuel jettisoning engine and space stations and wars.
I think I’ll be breaking for the north because fuck persecution, bigotry, police brutality and their black bagging, assumptions, drug wars. I can’t believe our free speech has come to this tabloid tyranny place where red states paint their ballots with hate and don piggy white-face. Better think of something quick to survive the changing of the tides, help me stay alive and not only that but to thrive! Oh, and to be free of your god and those walls and hospital scrub and handcuff and piercing eye.
Carry instructions: “You have to leave me outside. If you lock me up we all die.” They won’t listen to save their lives. Got into a Ghost show the other night for peddling prints and patches outside and was rocked into a bittersweet embrace of nocturnal gilded theater and satanic metal faces of demons and death, and Lilith and Beelzebub and what have you. In twisted fate taking the place of a man’s mother; had passed away. Thinking for a flicker of a friend locked away for taking the life of a lover. But I do not know and never will I for my soul. All I can think of is postcards and pagan rituals, drug binges and oh if she was here with me as we shift along to Halloween dripping houses and oranges of October falling, she would make banquets of us all and down 30-rack bongs. How I have wandered into the past.
Here now in the downtown bustle grimy Monday Eugene at the library with other rubber trampers. Leather tramp jazz player. Sleeping in my car at the park for the last three months or so and I’ve come to the conclusion that I may have been too busy enjoying my wayward self to find a room to rent. But dammit it’s always just the half of it when the rain has damaged the electrical equipment in the hatchback and things are going south with the birds and so are my friends. The sky pissing down a hurricane puddle out there doesn’t care that jazz left his sleeping bag in a bush and it would just be perpetually wet for the next 6 months anyway so damn the man we’ll busk for those soggy dollars.
Recall laying in August under a mesh canopy gazing up towards the western heavens at a pie chunk of sunlight wedged between the trees. A halo arches the descending star. Spliff in the right hand. Idle hand swatting at the walls of the tent. Fwap. 4 miles down road from the nervous chatter of weekend campground refugees. Now at that fateful twenty-eight where I’ve got a bone to pick. Because I and my ticket to nowhere could go either way. No good shoes these days. Pinching quarters to save for laundry when I found out in Pacific City that a laundromat is a good place to hitch a ride on a cult following. Must love dogma. And all the godless heathens for their spanging and their souls. And Brother Ben for the rice he sows. The dead he knows. Playing with Velvet Underground and Nirvana tuned on my guitar strings and it sounds like liberty coming from myself but this is a degenerative life. And when the sun shines brightest I grow ever more weary. For it would be grand to live a dog’s life. Choosing to improve my dog’s life and she’s just peaches when I ain’t got no job and we stick together like a pack of animals on the run. But what you running from, huh? Why you starvin’, Jack?