A final gust from your cigarette,/as we begin the dance./I pursue a makeshift pair of heels/I bought you in an all night drugstore./We’re ,talking, thinking, up/hoping to penetrate, en route/forge well these weathered objects./ Instead, I use an anvil,/ next to the dim machine./In cahoots with the manager,/ the nerves excite/it’s just a guess/but there’s a place/ in every city/just like mine/rain, dew on park expanse/the neon pizza sign./A place I find myself/each time I’ve lied./I guess it’s better to tell the truth/to those in later life/ bound and confined./A message pulses between my feet and spine,/but it’s just a gesture/to when my fame dies./(I guess I like things cut and dried.)/Flames, far flung from the senses,/to where time dies,/in upheaval vs. decree,/time being the only world/the world can see./The rest, the flames conceal,/what’s me and mine./They’re renegade platoons,/who labor under another sun,/they adjust their hats, hiding contraband,/their sight will make you swoon.
I remember, back in ’63, my father, Kerouac and Jesus/ were on a hitchhiking spree./Jesus chain smoked Kools in blue boots,;/ while in a motel near Mesa Springs,/they held hands at a drive-in movie./(It was King of Kings.)/They roamed plastic saloons in Tuscon/asking each other, over and over,/-Did you fix Angela’s fan?/
Living it out in the Al-Hambra,/ meteoric rise of childhood/plastered on the ceiling./Please deals the cards down faceless,/best bet for a happy lifetime.