Monday, January 31, 2011

JLK- Cold City Country

old middle aged young men, driving down the highway in a big old boat car.

"Don't change the radio station, you know that slider glider; you wanna die (ride)."

" Nah man I'm fucked up, fucked up."

I am dreamin' a bit and slippin' too. Laying down on the cement and tripping on that fabric, that hangs off the tablecloth.

warm brown murky navajo indian medicine man taking my hand now.

we sing a lot drunk and slipping and skipping down to the abandoned supermarket just so we can play darts. We are repeating our day to day man.

Spider crawling up my leg, daddy long legs style.

snuck into the liquor cabinet and now I am a spinning. scraping my knees on the gravel, feeling my bones against my bones and muscles and insides- some blood comes out, slid down the dirty rib cage of the woods, on my bicycle over the rubber, onomonopia.

tree roots grow out of the ground, I forgot where I was driving.

I'm in a jazz club, there is cigarette smoke everywhere, there are some sound coming from somewhere, no one is there, I am sitting at a table in the dark and no one is on the streets outside either.

But then comes along the trolley car firetruck to scare off everyone away.



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