I see in the dazzled starry night, but wake to the dark robot daydream.

And I babble to you among locomotive breaths, that there is a fire
raging in the adjacent classroom, nay the whole university is ablaze, a
burning cathedral abandoned, and when the sirens of Elvis moaning are
stifled and become voided elevator muzak gassing us through grilles above,
we paralyze between floors of the Brain Hotel.

And today I sing to you of wailing Skynyrd Free Bird climaxes,
edged from the Jenny Gump balcony.

And I know that the Flying Burrito Disciples Mark and Paula of Star
Sys have embraced lightning on dusty Baja routes. And I stood on their
penthouse perch in the Flamingo Condo Tower facing aquamarine panoramas,
braced by sterling breezes and expanding vistas of paradisical island and
sea, and somewhere nearby a garage band played,

"Louie, Louie,
Whoa baby,
Now we gotta go"

And I passed through irresistible culdesac street parties where
cannabis fragrant Jethro Tull merriment burned as incense until the cranks
of dawn yanked me to the unforgiving asphalt. And Dylan sneered that
Rolling Stone interrogation:

"How does it feeeeeel?"

And I know that all the streets of Thomas Brothers were not paved
for me and Nancy Sinatra to trek. Suppose they gave an atlas of
Slumberville and nobody came?

But my drive never abates, and my foot is yet upon the throttle
full, and I'm shifting gears with my Flamingo knobbed staff.

Riff me again, that Kingsmen lead guitar clumsily lurches into the
garage band solo. And the dark lyric, just beyond our touch,

"I smelt a rose
In her hair"

And we craned our necks to locate the band but they were still
blocks away, tantalizing blocks away.

And I awoke in a claustrophobic elevator carriage car, crucified in
the daily holocaust, stalled between floors of the Skid Row Brain Hotel,
and we chatted about the weather of Slumberland, which is to be expected
between elevator comrade inmates. But the nazi welk muzak poured down upon
us from the sanitized grille, pumped beyond our reach above us, and we
choked to the suffocating bubble music.

And Dylan gutted became a Rolling Stone with strings and accordions.

Prisoners of the nuclear winter's hard rain, we dinosaurs poured
iridium on our walkmen, glimpsing our ears beyond the elevator walls, and
through those chinks of the coffin heard,

"Let's give it to 'em right now!"

The Kingsmen, and that lead guitar played a second solo refrain not
on the original 45, and this one is not launched so clumsy.

And the white kids tear off their polka printed polyester,
And synch in the suburban jungle shadows,
Blood burning like Tygers embracing their prey in the dark.

And I seek those unsung refrains & climaxing verses always
disenfranchised from the commercially abridged products that feign art, and
impersonate reality.

And I don't call it heaven, that tarnished coliseum where
quarterbacks with sanitary helmets and blue eyed glaring Pepsodent grins
clutching playbooks and Bibles they never read preen themselves before
spinning cheerleader clones.

"Whoa, baby, now we gotta go..."

And the quarterbacks and cheerleaders morph into Gates and Madonnas,

And I turn and see an accordion Polka hayseed smirk at me and scowl,

"You're worse than an iridium hippie, drinking lukewarm Pabst proudly
bought on sale at the Piggly Wiggly."

And the QB's and cheers morph into Kiss and Grace Slick, and I pray,

"Please no June Cleaver and Betty Crocker cocking their hairsprayed
doe gazed heads ever so sympathetically."

And my teammates became paisley gazed yuppsters, eye-sockets whirling
Tibetan Coupon Prayer Wheels, spinning slot machine inanity, embedded with
bar codes from Dunn & Bradstreet.

But I say that a man with guts and a cheerleader with glory,
switching on her furnace, launches a child of Atlas but airborne of Athena,
the ecstatic agony factory churning in her groin like a Breedlove turbine.

And I come upon a garage band, riffing on the desert floor. And
with them I jack my cables into the starry console.