each morning
when you
come to
slap your face
drink your dreary coffee
black
eat twice as much
oatmeal
still you lack
cut yourself
no slack
the assembly line of life
wants you back
jack...
don't go
you could find her
predawn by
the old covered
bridge
if you moved like a shadow
conceived in the less than light
a world of silence
in her head
overtook the duck pond
by the lily pad bed
then the light
then traversed
the sky
only the pond
remained dark with
her reflection
and the night
then the voices
began to bubble
anaerobic from the depths
then the cry to stop
then the aeroplane
then the cry for help
an orchestra of crickets
picked up where
they left
off
you can find her
predawn by
the old covered
bridge
that's where she died
that's where she
lives
Most rock stars walk the memory back to the days when every concert was hard pressed and hard won, when they knew personally every groupie and went afterpartying with the club, fresh cuts on their lips. When gigs were dive bars, audiences unpredictable if not hostile, and pay came in the form of an open tab. When a station wagon full of amps needed a jump. The simple luxuries on the road. A bitter loaf of bread and one night stand. A pan full of eggs and bacon. Walls dressed in hard wood. The percolating coffee pot to ringing ears. Crazy laughter after what just happened? Most rock stars dream of such beginnings. Through the gold-plated bars of today's high hung song bird cage. Awash in stale hits. Buried in mountains of paperwork. Studying the tax codes. Dining with divorce lawyers. Oh, how a dream can turn back on itself.