"i just saw a cop" tall lanky kid
driver coming around curve in
front of gas station, in front of blue
highway patrol. five mph above
speed limit. surprised driver speeds
up – cop car turns around on dime.
misfits dash into gas station parking lot,
open door, stand outside of brown sedan.
ten seconds. blank stare. knuckles on
trigger. "get back in the car, son. no
sudden moves. license and registration on
the dashboard." fat stubby italian style
redneck baptist, cold blue eyes, black ray-ban
glasses – new uniform set in front of pale white
sky. glances over picture. " i need you to step
outside." hard gust of wind catches the thin
hairs on top of the head. sparrow sounds. long
lanky misfit, baggy pants, muddy boots, miller
light t-shirt steps outside car. "put your hands on
the trunk, right there" points to dent in brown sedan.
pats inner portion of his thighs, pulls pockets inside out.
"i want you to step over to the front of my squad car,
hands behind your back." slides handcuffs on tight,
squeezes against the bones in his fingers. checks
registration. meanwhile, football type kid with spattered
white paint on clothes, backwards hat, hands over quarter
sack of dank, reaches outside window, wincing. "would
you please step out of the car" handcuffs placed. "looks like
we got a couple of drug dealers on our hands" (coup d'etat)
strokes the underside of his legs. "met? met? got any of that
good stuff. methamphetamines, no i do not happen to have what
you say – methamphetamines." sly smile, as anger creeps up nerves
into bloodstream. cops glance at each other. people pass by in large
chevy trucks. slo-motion. stands helpless against a backdrop of old
gas station and fresco mountains. younger kid with backwards hat
is set inside squad car. miller light t-shirt left to bang on steering wheel,
as if gray cement floor, but remembers desperation and blinding light.
federal prisoners with no teeth, black ink, poor mean laughter. sedan
moves onto highway past stop sign, cold indifference of road becomes
silence.
we climb the tower
falling into the laps of swans in
flimsy paradise
talking about
nothing
playing pool with
seven balls
hard rain to a rough
congested nose
the feel of warm bouncers
the noise of
sipping drinks
and cold
conversation
as we watch the serenade of glitter
and dim tv sets
wishing we were somebody else
"They teach you there's a boundary line to music. But, man, there's no boundary line."
cowboy jukebox cold-blooded thoughts of
righteous greed, auctions of silence buying black hearts
ten cent nickel and dimes
change the recourse to pump blood in the opposite
the livery line bows to president inventions
hot moments
"Music is your own experience, your thoughts, your wisdom. If you don't live it, it won't come out of your horn."
broken glass in criminal dawn trailing off, merging in trance, not
hollywood butlers, not bright lights, not rented space to kill
pacific down low intuition,
frequently becoming something edges, pure planes fake style
"I realized by using the high notes of the chords as a melodic line, and by the right harmonic progression, I could play what I heard inside me. That's when I was born."
s.s. panama coming into port, watchout tones, trans a-dopted dope coping
with me, as i go down into soft torn places in the middle of my gut
and the places that i couldn't place and prosper without in between
Don't play the saxophone. Let it play you.
let it roll over you in quiet speakeasies in quiet tones, low bass sounds
low definitions in melodic syncopation, kansas city 1955 along rivers
laughing around cityscape, escaping championship
contender fights, the bass of the place, the choral tones of
the hills steel oakland in bay
riffs
alone drifting highways
"Any musician who says he is playing better either on tea, the needle, or when he is juiced, is a plain straight liar . . . You can miss the most important years of your life, the years of possible creation."
dead deconstructed over the pit of the flame
contagious flipping roaches into the storm
straight played out of control
in a bath tub
autumn suicide
sad clowns mumbling in
a chorus of roses
Ray currently resides in the suburban shithole known as Atlanta. It's not that bad, if you get into the city and away from the traffic.