those days, we bled into twilight-
and it was always
macgowan after midnite
and bad brains before
the badder break of dawn.
the mercantile streets of georgetown
were still dank with yuppie vomit
and we chased after their doc marten boots
like the tail of a comet,
leaving poseurs in putrid puke piles
wearing brand new doc martens
with all the gloss of subway car paint
from commander salamander;
beating that glossy wannabe footwear
that rightly belonged to us
against the bleak grayness of sidewalk,
just to make them
look over-used.
i bought some skinhead a drink
after he lent me ten dollars.
i bought some rude girl a snack
once she got tired of being
a famished night crawler.
rudi, there was always a message to you-
the harmony of rico's trombone
pushing out like a newborn baby;
if the spirit of sixty-nine
was not exactly the essence of ninety-three
then i guess our only hope
was that the rest of the unfree world
would still ply us with
free guinness and dope.
