This blog was created for others who will hopefully glean something from the words I have written.Not much to say except I ran off from an orphanage when I was 13 years old.Hopped on a freight train and joined the circus.Have been wandering ever since.I am grateful to be alive and my only desire is to leave something here for others to gain from.If I can accomplish that then I have successfully reached my intended goal.All we have left in the end is our legacy.
You ate all the cookies Except the last one And smoked my last cigarette Yes I am angry I will hide a box of cookies In my glovebox Cigarettes will be plentiful They will be stashed In the garage somewhere From now on eat your own cookies Smoke your own cigarettes Let me wash the dishes for you Empty the garbage Mow the lawn and put gas in your car I want to make life easier for you But you cross the line When you eat all the cookies And smoke all of my cigarettes I like your mother Don't worry Everything else is fine
Tumbling rhythms about in my brain
Octaves smoking in constant dilemma
Notes that play amongst tinkling cymbals
All arriving at the piano's feet
Yet I can feel that down home beat
Like it used to be in New Orleans
Where I stood on the corner and listened
In my torn blue jeans
Down in New Orleans
Where the music was sweet
How it caressed my ears and brought me to tears
Quenching my desires
In my self inflicted pain
And the tears
Yes the tears which flowed
When nobody was looking
Or sometimes they were
But I didn't care
The energy and the spirit
That flowed in the street
How my heart was captured
In the pounding of those notes
In spite of the demons
Or the evil that gloats
Upon my shoulder as I witnessed
The smoking piano that blared out the songs
Making all of the rights in my life
The opposite of wrongs
Sweet smelling incense mixed with familiar body odors
Smiling faces with piercing teeth
Enveloping me and expelling my grief
In the dust kicked up by scuffling feet
All part of the deep down beat
Whores and drunkards alike
All my friends
As I smoke my Picayune cigarettes
In the middle of the street
Of which I am part of to this day
No escape from the parade
Like the smoke that pours from the stacks
Down by the railroad tracks
At crossroads where I flee to in my escape
Cobblestone streets reaching
Preventing my departure
All within its nature
With no real nomenclature
It sucks me back in to where I began
When I first ran
To the arms of the freight train
In the rain
I slipped on the tracks
Trying to get in
The boxcar made of wood and tin
Where hobos reclined
Rolling cigarettes and eating cans of beans
Heinz vegetarian beans
I remember-the 27th of December
1965 when I made my escape
It was the year of the death of Martin Luther King
Not much to sing about that year
Feeling the pull from New Orleans
Where I would eventually stand
In my torn blue jeans
Offering myself up to the crowds
Who mourned in the streets
Wearing their shrouds
Discarded mask of the Mardi Gras Trampled as the parade goes by Mixed with conglomerations of many things Barely a moment in time in the sky Hooping and hollering and last hurrahs Confetti that slowly dies upon the streets The spirit still survives within the mask As surely as the heart which beats It searches for its host although departed Desertion occured after its use After brief contemplation the spirit departs For yet it is back on the loose Seeking out for what it must obtain A human beating heart Looking to become as if in one Though it knows deep down that it must depart Wandering in wanton to meet its needs In places chosen by random Two distinct forms that exist in time That shall never run coherently in tandem
