move on
(after baudelaire)
for the aging man playing with his guitar and
distortion pedal, the world is equal to his libido. and when
the Railroad calls you one morning, pulling you from
the rockgod dream of eleven-thirtyish, switching
one onto a fixed rail, the marriage of dream and dreamer
is annulled like a catholic fetus. reality
makes us dance on champagne glasses of fake security.
how grand were the urban honky tonks
of kansas city when your music defined the darkness,
how petty the arenas filled with westport humanoids.
one morning we set anchor after a wild sail and
prepare to die. no more the swelling
velvet of donboy's ax as he leans into a riff, planting
lightning trees in the air. soon he'll be
embroidering his fate on the corner of a lapclutch paycheck
due to arrive on schedule. the bank will
give him free cubs tickets, tho he prefers the sox.
some fly to a cheapness of comfort i detest,
others toughen themselves with
a creosote of the true voyager, those who simply move
to get gone, cheeks
bulged with adrenaline and bongsmoke, locomotive
heart thudding into a nasty harmonic groove,
butt shaking with hands trying to keep the harmonica from
jetting away. and their plans
were well oiled by lawrence longhairs and the art institute
coolcats in leather, nurtured by our energy stomp.
but alas, the Railroad engineered his
father's father's father's horizon, his name is on their list,
so off he chugs from the open elements,
the spit beers, the high of working in creative depths, moving
to chicago to pull'em levers
&piss fer the public good, burning the music
to get warm and set
sin city goddammit 1989 Lawrence Ks
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