Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

tumbleweed motels are dicey
where fugitives lay low, packing
handguns, large cash and drugs
rob the mob and disappear

no, domestic war is the trouble
tattooed couples in derelict rooms
who fight like hell to get out

no, the screen is the trouble, the wire
not the stained walls and sloping floors
the tobacco stench or occasional roach

free will murder oozes from the screen
until jammed with barking heads
inflamed by a beat-up cable box
succumb, and fall from high desert
from your quiet corner of sagebrush
to jumpy shadows and rapid rabid punditry
like semiautomatic fire in a liquor store hit

they invade your dreams
their foreheads turn deeper red
their lips move as hummingbird wings
barking head blues and a whiskey-rocks

the weeds that roll through time
right past the psychedelic shack
and now they call it crack, or worse
then that jack, whiskey with gas
or some other toxic fluid added
to the mix, eat yer flesh right off
yer bones, like vultures on the edge
of last chance town
the dime dropped on you like crime
the slimeballs in the Studebaker
waiting for the deal to go down
men in black listening to the desert
at night
the endless dimension of Nowhere
Nevada, the last blinking busted neon
sign on the edge of eternity
the the places that are not on the map
the area where they make like secret
like the area in their brains where they
hide all the loot and drugs and hookers
watchin that old movie on the motel TV
the one with Humphrey Bogart, trying to out
run that A-bomb test like he outrun the fuzz

yup, sounds like capitalism to me......fine work from the desert sage......those barking heads are an invasive species and should be eliminated with any decent
weed poison......keep 'em coming mnazzy

and not only that, the lower colorado river, that eternal rock destroyer, barely makes it out alive, to the pacific . . . all dammed up by our obsessions and such..