Saloon (San Francisco, U.S.A., April 2012)
where did you all come from?
Asks the aged lumpy white man
From under the dim red glow that frees us all up
As if he’s been asleep and dreaming,
or just somewhere else for the set.
Takes a sip of water.
He wears greying running shoes and a windbreaker.
Anything but glamorous,
this man who has been talked about,
The one they say wrote songs for Janis Joplin.
We think he plays for us—
He is praying,
contemplating his divine with trumpet and blues
while a gyrating mass sways and pumps all around,
hoping for a taste of that same divinity but—
he ain’t selling, no.
This is the way the world ends: Not with a Bang but a Whimper.
And he chuckles when a little young thing in front begs: