(TO THE TUNE OF TOMBSTONE BLUES BY BOB DYLAN)

Ode to the Lit-up Losers…..

The Hamburgular and His Heroine hold down the hoe stroll

While Disney and Facebookers are draining your soul

And the whole wide world is under control

Of the Signal’s hum and It’s power.
Newton and Tupac have left us alone

With gravity’s consequence on the Sickest third stone

And Adam is sleep walking, missing a bone

Holding hands with the snake in the Garden.
Mama’s in the whorehouse

She’s looking for booze

Daddy’s yellow pillbox

Says he just can’t lose

I’m in the jungle

With the blackball blues.
The symmetry of Venus is on the newsstand

Laughing at the candy bars “this must have been planned!”

The Nuts and Diabetics just whisper, “Isn’t this grand?”

While the clerk sifts the dope in his apron

Modern man’s sickness is smiling tonight

And the seeds of my saint’s day just doesn’t seem right

But the Jolly Green Giant has forfeited the fight

For his rights to his beans at the flophouse.
Mama’s in the bathroom

She’s cooking up chris

Daddy’s on the borderline

Holding his piss

I’m in the Desert room

In a blacked out bliss
The Joker and Robin both have gone home

Leaving Batman and us sad folks “like …seriously alone”

Tell me My Captain in the most solemn tone

Is it better in the hellish here or the hereafter?
Footballs and teen spirit are holding us tight

Wearing their numbers and fighting to fight

I think somebody better turn off the big light

And send Babe Ruth to the gallows for his hanging.

The bar rooms and gun shops are stretched the seams

The stars on the playground are grinding their dreams

With Cheswick and Kobe on opposite teams

Still the crowd screams for blood from the chickens.
The Queen Mary and the Love Boat are losing their shine

While Julie and Isaac are cooking up swine

The Muslims are angry but Doc says “it’s fine,

can we please get some courage for the lion?”

Aww Mommas at the courthouse

She’s Lying with men

Daddy’s got the top bunk

At the old state penn

I’m in the liquor store

With my bottled best friend
the best things in life are lost in the breeze

Faith, Hope and Virtue are down on their knees

culture vultures hover, spreading disease

In our mission streets in San Francisco.
Cindy and Bobby Brady are getting their fix

While Rerun and Potsie are plotting bank licks

The magic is gone all that’s left is light tricks

Is there a drink for me in the kitchen?
Mama’s in the whorehouse
She’s looking for booze
Daddy’s yellow pillbox
Says he just can’t lose
I’m in the jungle
With the blackball blues

 

The future has no formula baby…
It’s all Jazz.
It’s the ultimate

improvisation.
No script,
No plot
Except the one that the Big Man got.
It’s not

in your 401k

or retirement plot

and it’s most assuredly not

in the hole that your

head is buried in.
You thought you

thought it
Through
Quite thoroughly but in real time it’s just a

giant knot that they got you tangled up in,
They star spangled you up again
(Singing D’Angelo style)

“And they laughin in yo face once again, got yo mouth up on they hook…one mo gin’”

It’s just the same old lies

strewn from the snake’s green eyes
In the Garden of Eden with

Eve and them
And after all that, the wars and the bullshit

reasons for war, after all the millions and

millions

of innocent simple folks Uncle Sam

murdered by the bushel…

the smoke cleared and we all got in gear behind

television fear,
We forgot about the lies and believed again.

Amnesia is the state that we ALL are licensed and insured in.
The Rat race

marathon where

Nobody keeps winning

it’s
the Worldwide Web

that we are all happy to be stuck in.
The reason we all keep

running in circles trying to

eat,

drink

sleep and watch the watch-box.

It’s all Jazz baby,
It’s the worst notes sung and hung on the wall with the Karaoke speakers
And the speakers aren’t speaking anymore they are screaming

“Die you fucking shaved monkeys!”

“But die slow so we can get our flow…”

Drink your miller’s light

wear your team’s colors.
Swallow

the pills

they give you

and wash it down

with holy water

and try to find the time.

Have you ever seen Miles Davis

tap his feet to find the beat?

Never my man,

He was the master of improvisation

he rode that wind without a scowl or grin,

He is one of the main reasons they stopped calling us boys and the reason we call each other men.

You all cannot bob your head to anything but a four-four,
What will you do with a 6/8 or a 12/8?
Five time?

What if it swings from Staccato’s branches?
Or hangs from Legato’s leggings?

It’s the new bowl of gumbo;

sling shot around the corner on the first day that your pension plan kicks in odd meter

(Somebody spent it)

The future is improvisation my sissy boy nation!
Jazz is improvisation
And it’s the truth.
The truth never sounds the same any more

The Truth wears no make up and has Its own schedule and agenda.

It’s everything that you think will last,

everything you thought would last.

You sweat up your shoes

and pulled out your hair for the future!
You planned without the plans my man!

Does the architect build his dream house with dreams that he drummed up while

dreaming?
I don’t know about you …

but me?

I’m always scheming…
hoping and

believing,
And just banging on my drums

to whatever beat

I 

choose      

  in 

                             the 

                                 late

              watered

          down 

evening.

D. MEDINA 14’

Musings for me and my imaginary pals-

The whining April night;

Humid, horrid and ungrateful

She hides in my blackest shadows

She shadows my blackest hide

Leaving me alone with Dr. Jekyll

And a dry bottle of whine.

The moon, this pen and pad are my companions.

The moon waxing in her magnetic charm

Far from friendship’s bosom

Yet close enough to taste the romantic elixir

Of longing and language.

The black April night, nearly numb now,

Waits near the gallows of daybreak.

A mercenary cloaked in the garb of the original nightlight.

The undulating evening in April

Where all my nightmares come alive

After I leap bravely into my cold bed sheets

The tide of the p.m. swells

Reminding my mind

Of

All

My

Sins.

They are brass

They are rusted

They are purple and purposeful

Some are only known by the fiend

That lays his head on my pillowcase.

Far from the easy water of the deepest well

Lay the lies of a lifetime,

Spread out upon the bedspread of guilt

Quilted with the silver stitches of consequence.

Judged by the night,

Condemned by the moon glow,

Tortured and strangled

In the silence.

The silence of the night;

When the mind won’t stop speaking into my

Headphone earwax

Spinning me around the clock

After dusk gives in and

Just before the dawn buttons her apron

Making promises that she will never keep.

These are the hours of loneliness only known

By the strange ones;

The manic artist,

The mad poet,

The lunatic writer and the musician who does not fit in.

Those of us who MUST heed to our art

When it starts screaming

Songs,

Death threats,

Poems
And plots and schemes scratching out

Mentality’s suicide notes that never find their porch lights when the shameful itch begins to search for long fingernails far beyond the midnight hour

Insomniacs;

Laying on mattresses

Or couches of regret.

Playing in our own

Worlds;

Gods of makeshift realities

That leak from our mind-wands

Exchanging sorrow

For joy

Heartache

For humor

Anxiety

For pen strokes

Worry

For fiction.

The night time is

Nothing

for me and my worn-out brain,

Its improvisation

After the band is gone

And the lights are out

I am alone,

Wide awake

And far away from dream dust.