The morning began to the sounds of ‘Slow Train Coming’ echoing from one the neighboring apartments though I didn’t know which one exactly, and me deciding to read Huckleberry Finn for some reason. The rest is a blur and I think someone came in and knocked me upside the head as I ascended into the clouds and resumed a journey, but not before thinking of 17th Century America and visiting grainy images of steamships rolling down the Mississippi, when people were still considered property and everything sacred to the stars and stripes stood on the brink of collapse. Slow Train Coming and who else but the voice of Dylan crooning over imprinted photographs of the Civil War. Ah well.
I’m growing more in tune with my instincts and I thought I saw flashes from another time, and I thought I heard the fading sounds of an Italian circus which I feel I should recognize, something from my childhood maybe, from the early years gone by.
At night I learn that setting up a goddamn microphone and wiring your apartment for even halfway decent sound can be tricky business. “But it’s not like writing a book,” says I, knowing that I need to return to ‘Saints’ as soon as possible. But first I need to get this song recorded. For some girl. It might prove difficult but I’ve got my fingers wrapped ’round it almost. I’m getting visions of faces, new ones beside me. It is a woman’s face, yea that of a young girl, smiling at me from dim and whispering shades of light.
I go out for some night air holding a scrap sheet sheet of paper upon which I’d written something several nights ago and kept since I thought it’d be important somehow. But you never really know with these things.
This Girl. This girl.
Who I crave and want to know more about. Share in that laughter.
That laugh of hers riveting, youthful. Joyous.
She is the desert highway child,
Young and reckless drives me wild.
I came in on chariots of thunder when she came right out, snuck in from under,
Oh, calico beauty,
Kiss me, Kill me
Move me, soothe me.
Be my girl my dark blue fire
Wrap your arms ’round me, sacred desire.
We have the night, and death may come soon.
Your smile divine beneath the light of the moon.
Be my baby, though we haven’t much time
We’ll live as children beneath the starlit sky
I went to the usual spot of the past several nights down Sunset Boulevard where there is an outer terrace for cafe patrons to sit and kick back beneath the moon, and where the same group of guys meet up and play cards well past closing time. There are never any girls with them but then who am I to judge? For I’m just a casual bluebird.
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