Jam Session

Pack up the room. Sea sick blankets. Tribalism. The chance to dunk a Belgian waffle into a creamy cup of chicory flavored java.

The jewels and the jewelry dealer. The glucose level of the tailor's son is normal. There is a pack up gum on the table. Reach for it.

I am not a Spaniard but how I envy the dwellers of the wine cliff regions who have dry but moist brown eyes. I went up the third floor to have a visit with Pigpen who was drinking the dredges of some cheap wine. He looked like hell, face covered up with a dirty pork pie hat. Children are coming. To the this island in the middle of an island in the middle of a dead end crust of bread. Jerry's children. I'm hanging on the lightpost.

I am coming down with a strange grace. Not brought on by fabulous tinctures. Not brought on by powerful powders or outrageously loud modern music. This state is fully induced by the color blue.

I cry so loud. I call out into the vents. I am a walking stick.

I wish to walk into the west with a water jug and a jazzmaster.The powderized streets cry with children. It is the same cry as the cry of wheat in the month of July. Pour wine into your mouth and have some of this aged Dutch cheese and let the world return to it's normal dimensions.

I get loney. Pigpen brings the belts full of harmonicas in most keys.

Turn on your bundt cake oven and bake something rosy. Something with frosting the color of a morning back in 1973 when every woman over 30 wore rouge. I wear rouge.

I am running on the freedom ticket. That means children again need to fill the streets and we need to landfill the technology.

Steve, I am running for freedom, may I borrow the talcum? Steve, I see the sun broken in the hot wet sky. I see the stars are little shocking crystals that pop and fizz. The blues rain down like boysenberry nectar. I want to smush the mountains down with a badminton racket.

Sorry Steve, I am leaving with Pigpen on a trip up to the top of the mountain. See you in September.

Cups of gravy lined up on the cracked sidewalk. Shattered golf balls litter lawnscape.