by Inigo Amescua

He says he’s never there. Don’t know who is he. Don’t know what is he at. He says he is a poet, he lives as a poet, he will die a poet but he sings, and groans, and growls, and whispers clouds of Camel cigarettes and songs about being sick of love, deep down, all around; outcasts, nomads, wanderers, it has no grind, I’m just waiting for this night to end. He says that maybe he is not there, here, anywhere, but he is in the radio playing songs about baseball, hot summers, rich men and leftovers. Tweedle Dee & Tweedle Dum. She says she loves me and she is thinking of me but she ought to know that she could be wrong. He is on youtube, on myspace, on my tube. He is talking about Cadillacs, protests songs, lilac, watermelon. He is giving away black hats to sexy ladies in a palace in Venice, winning awards from the Prince of Spain, Sad Eye Lady of the Lowlands is just pain. He plays songs by Link Wray, Mayfield, Wonder, Domino, Johnnie Ray. I knew from the first moment she meant to do me harm but he is coming back, he lacks, high muck-a-muck. He is dress in black in the border of the cliff. He knows where to fly and when to run. He is ain’t talking but he is everywhere I write, he knows the rhymes, he is not polite. I see him with Cat Power, John Lennon, Johnny Cash, Bobby Vee, Françoise Hardy. He is at the store of the Moma showing me his paintings in a big orange book, he is in Washington Square drinking sake in dark caves, God, he is everywhere. He reads the Song for the Open Road, the Howl, the Deserts of Love. He is taking my pills, my bike, my grass, my lines, he is even stealing up my mind. I’m not here to judge you, I’m here to play music.