Wet sand in the gravely road
feels like ghosts nipping at my heels.
I wheel around repeatedly
and find last year’s crooked pines
fucking with me –
it must mean something
like that copy of Howl I found at the old
bookstore.
Everything means something
the spiritual girls would always assure
me
before they left to go and give that good
good head to the local drummer.
The bible means slightly more than Moby
Dick
but considerably less than a spiritually
incited blues man maniac
attacking the strings like stigma of the
wildest flower–
I don’t need no promises or paradise
just someone spiritual and connected to
the four winds to keep my rhythm
because I have a hard time keeping my own
–
it’s why I run
for the rhythm. It’s why everybody runs.
Comments
Post a Comment