once this run passes
smackin me backside the head,
gonna be all right
these trains gather
endure
then reel on past downshiftin
immortal skies
answers become pointless
when questions intoxicate,
uncertainties to bully the mind,
idlin on nada when todo el mundo está en llamas,
burnin up like dancin barefoot on red coals for the down feel
to verify yourself to yourself
and this circus seeps through windows
under doors,
crazy neurotic myriapodal crawlers
pingin dimes in boxes for half a listen,
while somebody’s jonesin somewhere,
bleedin down some grimy subway alleyway
an instant of tangled visions,
beyond hungry legs grindin
and should this vision ever appear:
“well, I got a story, man,
and I need to make things real with it,
bein truthful,
listenin to every note,
desperate for signs to commence celebratin freedom,
breakin away from these distorted eristical circles."
St. Louis, ‘72