Well Bottom Blues

I remember 22 and I don’t mind dying. I always had one last 1957 silver certificate folded in my wallet, coins for the phone, and the way to the next whiskey bar. Repeat after me: 504-522-9771.

Manias magnificent opening night after night. The curtain of purple cannot mute the applause in my head. Repeat after me: LUD 714.

Five to one baby, one in five. We were Morrison Aladdin Sane Captain Beyond Thunder Jet Puppets strung out on proud display singing pitch a want dang doodle all night long. We are freaking in tongues to spook the Holy Ghost.

If you’ve never left the an uptown bar with a gram and fresh cocktails in hand bound for the Dungeon deafening  other cars with Diamond Dogs because the apocalypse will never catch us you will never you will never catch us. We is stoned immaculate and protected by well-intentioned parochial nuns who commanded us to walk St. Thomas project after tutoring.

There is a crystal instant in such nights when you stop and consider the perfect chemistry of ecstasy. The music is your special friend, women’s heads turn towards you and the bartender remembers that 20 opening tip. A religion of limbs, sudden breasts, fading faces and colliding loins and what’s in your wallet oh your name.

If unrequited remember a smokey drift down Marconi or Wisner’s slitheting  S-curves where you learned the controlled slide then the bridge and then the open sunroof salt flats of the bayou speedway. There is a sunrise waiting for your eyes on the Lake of Pontchartrain.