I heard you cry, Saint John. You played with pain, Blowin a song Only understood By you And the god That whispered A love supreme To your soul. He must have Wanted you In his band, Tradin licks With Gabriel, After he heard you Blow sweet salvation At the Vanguard Or Birdland. Those were Your cathedrals, And your high mass Was a forty-five minute set, And you wailed For those that had An ear To hear your gospel Of tenor And sympathy. You left us too soon, But you left behind A little piece Of epiphany On the streets To be picked up By the junkies And the poets Who can feel The voice Of god In your horn.
Life as a loser Never changes, It just moves To a different place And pretends To put on a new Jacket like an old record That's scratched And warped- Evicted Convicted Afflicted With some seething rash From head to toe Underneath the skin Invisible to the naked Girl in the leopard skin Raincoat. I feel like A used rubber As I watch The headlights Obscured by the snow. My tracks itch My head hurts It all seemed So good talking about it But the reality Stinks like a full cat box. I'm too hard headed To accept the fact That I'm just tired And I'm getting older Every minute No matter how you look at it. It's only fantasy anyway, Right? I mean Everybody's fucked up, Right? I mean I don't know what I mean I know I didn't mean To get decaffienated beans I just didn't see The word, But I heard someone Talking about Jesus And wondered why There is so much Misrepresentation Misinterpretation Manipulation Of the facts of opinion- Funny how things Always get back to that Even as morning Always comes too early Here in the expensive Land of the free- There doesn't seem to be Much point since Everything has such A high cost And right is only The opposite of left. Just watch TV And you'll understand That Homer Is King of the World And everything Is only $19.95. I heard that The air was bad On the radio Today. ------------------------------------- All poems copyright 1998 Kevin Crone