The sacred cosmic music committee meets in old man bars
In desperate parts of town only lost poets know about
They put their quarters in and press the buttons
Over pint and cig regrets and the greatest love songs never written
When twilight’s thankful tenderloin draws its dirty shades
And there’s no space to contemplate the stars
Except for this invisible dump on Leavenworth
Where the jukebox plays all night long
Coltrane, Suzanne, and the Spiders from Mars.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Saturday, May 9, 2009
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