The Sun sizzles down in Old Mexico and another Revolver is buried into a pawn-shop shelf…
Sweet whispered nothings, promises on loan, Russian vodka hangovers and ripped in Half Delta tickets…
The same song taught from the song bird still sings sweetly this morning… like we never knew, like the time we shook hands back in Albuquerque back in the Late Summer of 19Seventy’ah’Somethin’…
Time simple as a swallow out there yonder in Ol’ Cape Canaveral…
Gone is Evil Knievel… Gone Are the 3 Musketeers, Gone is all my Alabama Lonesomeness and my
half-pipe Disraeli Gears and All the fool dogs that followed me around… sugar and kisses and after moto-rub-downs… A Cowboy hat full of dust, A crown of thorns full of dead water sea scroll jewels, a dirty wet bandana, the softly fondled crown of an empty gold and black silvered loved one…
The boots still On and the guitar crazy half strung… as the Crow flies, as the bar-room Women lie, as Hollywood and Vine still tags along in its ultra’rag’Ass Jet rag bandages… under the Searchlights…
The Spice of a Mexican scented kiss… Santa Muerte, the trains screech to a halt for a moment of Silence in Salina, in Bakersfield and East Berlin, which inside the shelter of my Heart, aches louder than Bombs… Keep Moving forwards… All the World’s a Spell…