Wednesday, September 03, 2014

Third Eye Desolation

(For Dan Klute)

There's blood in the streets; it's up to my ankles.
Blood in the streets; it's up to my knee.
And I do not care what anyone says because The Doors are not just some band you listen to during your adolescence. In fact I still listen to them because they speak the truth through the blues, reds, and sonic booms.

I am waiting for the phone to ring.
I am awaiting another muse, another queen of the highway, another third, fourth, or fifth second coming to arrive and move these chess pieces around the board.
I had money, yeah, and I had none, but I was never so broke that I couldn’t buy a ticket to your show.

We’re led to believe good things come to those who wait, and if you believe that, I have a timeshare to sell you that is on the dark side of the moon.
Third eye desolation is a plague, and if you don’t get what I’m saying, don’t sweat it because you’ll soon be dead or filthy rich and living on an island with someone who you love to despise.
The cars hiss by my window like the waves down on the beach. We’re all being led to slaughter with every single Facebook message we post and smartphone app we download.

Blood in the streets runs a river of sadness.
Blood in the streets is up to my thigh.
And I do not care what anyone says because James Douglas Morrison was an American poet who slithered through the LA streets like a lizard in need of alcohol and a shaman who would listen to his moonlight driven prayers for a sacred kind of sweet desolation.

Charles Cicirella

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