7-11 sign screams throughout the night,
thinking of saving rolling stones for you,
then going to sleep for a minute i might,
when there is nothing left to choose.
the sign screams 24 hours, voodoo.
wining ice box melted, melting.
nice box melted, melting melting.
dripping generator, purring purring.
freezing up to fly right, whirring.
into the blasted 7-11 sign. stop.
thinking of getting blinds. stop.
how unkind the sign,
how undignified,
and tacky
the young Russian woman will be,
when she learns the local rules,
playing the game gracelessly.
my world is a world of 45's;
tough to keep a dream alive,
when i have to be stopping,
every three minutes.
it is a life with nothing to it,
surviving inner grooves.
my day is a day of 45's;
45 minutes for immigrants,
a lesson plan for every one.
does not amount to anything,
doing what must be done,
reclaiming another daughter or son.
my attention span is 45 minutes long.
knowing i will be doing this
when i am 45,
when the accomplishment is
kids' growing lives while mine dies;
someone hand me a knife.
my life spins around like 45's,
not slow like 33's,
or fast like 78's,
not so happy, not so great.
the day i die i will be glad,
to replay the life i await.
i wish i were a fifth of whisky,
a dime of smoke, or tab of LSD.
wish i could dream of jumping a bungee,
crashing a race car into a wall,
or finishing a hot blues set,
to the crowd's call.
wish i could break every window,
in every public school.
unwind every cassette tape,
fling every CD
at every window in every public school;
that would be cool
give me something useful to do
besides wasting away my life,
without ecstasy or strife,
of bullshit things to do,
for no reason at all,
like a dog licking its balls.
from Practicing My Chops
new york city
may 16-17, 1992
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