RIDE ON A MAIL TRAIN BABE
Never before seen, my brain is blasted, festering,
wide open with images and tight fractions. I feel
as if I've been everywhere, inside and out, between
things and down. Vap'rous, as the word goes. And
that's how Life takes its meaning from being. The
cat in the cardboard box may hold the options, but
the big dog looking in has all the advantage 'cept
claws and swiftness back. Somebody's gonn'a
get hurt. My Uncle Sam died singing the National
Anthem again. What recourse have I left? My own
back hurts, like I've been walking a thousand miles,
yeah, which I have. I don't know where I've been
but down the echoing corridors of this shit-fest mind
there's of things left for comment and rhyme. Everything
here gets a second life. Deja-vu to you? Once was
not enough, as Jacqueline Susan wrote : she used to
pen soft-porno pulp fiction fr the bus-stop ladies and
the grease-handed men - supple of wrist and slick.
Now the time is all over me - the minutes seem like
hours and no one reads Dick Tracey anymore. Can't
buy a thrill. I've been up all night, babe. Leanin' on a
window-sill. Staccato the cat has an always-empty
mind like that. I knew the reason before I ever
knew the plot or the story. My Christmas Tree
has needles of time, oh glory!
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