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Way Too West 11

Way Too West 11

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Published by Filip Marinovich
by Julien Poirier
by Julien Poirier

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Published by: Filip Marinovich on Jul 11, 2013
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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07/11/2013

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WAY TOO WEST 11
 by Julien Poirier *Last Time: Homeless in San RafaelThis Time:
 
. . . . . . .The day before the day beforeThe eight-alarm fireatS. Heterogeneity and PenroseAve.Razed the Democratic PartyBeer hall to the dregs, Jed Yarrow madeA fist on the porch of the prior mission—But it was more like knockingA giant book for luck and gettingleaden choirs.From the genie soy in Iowa to the Beltway Sniper It boded badly, he decided, for the party of Mondale/Maserato.While the hard water smells of Antonio’s PrellCame off his scalp in aseptic CentralValley morning sun: It was going to be a hot one. AdmittedBy the young aide, a copious dose of brilliantineUnable to tame his rock ‘n’ roll hair, and peeling off The Strange Attractor 50th AnniversaryWindbreaker with a snap of static Jed instantly (his heartGrew gills) pegged his tribal peer for the day as None other than the lead singer of the very band to have opened the triple billHours earlier at The Open Door:Who’d strummed a custard Stratocaster Shapelier than himself, black lock Licking down,Doll hand with thumb of elf Festooning slant pick ups,Barring the neck—In pegged pants and Cuban bootsHe stood 5 foot 2Or so, Jed would guessWhen passing him out the door of the toilets swollen with turdsAnd swollen toilet paper, his ears still ringing with the tooStrident changes they’d rung on New Wave ladders —Though they had one song that made nothing else matter.
 Don’t you understand? I didn’t want to get roped in to your crazy back and forth. That’swhy I didn’t write, sounded distant on the phone because I was distant. I’m 3000 miles
 
away! Can’t you see that I just wasn’t interested in getting with your neurotic,narcissistic melodramatic potlatch of love notes and phone calls late into the night full of  pretentious small talk. Fuck that noise. I’m in love with you!
Jed: “If a total stranger I didn’t know really wellWere to come in wearing a beanie, a soul patch,A bolo tie with a turquoise catch,Two-tone mohair creepers, a dashiki,Vuarnet sunglasses on a dayglo neck string,His freckles like flecks of cocoa in milk,Spit-crustedCheek lined by the throw pillowRamp to the bay window onto swing set and SkyMall birdbath in the back yard where N. and his wife now passEvenings and the megalomania leaves turningBrown snap cleanly—Were to comeIn, this caption dreamer, while Delta Blues carve up the moon’sSax lessonLike lean blue canvasesAnd whirlpools in raw steak Pressed to a smokestack shiner by fingers gushingElimination of the
exuberantly distractible Beloved,
A Mirror Car (or, A Mirror KKKar)Straight into the StyxFans muting the Oakland Coliseum parking lot splashed with burning sulfur Kliegs and lashings of Dutch Master walrus mustaches, cut-off Jeans, Thai Stick, American blues, jazz, cartoons,American poetry, poets, blues singers, punk rock,matzo ball soup on the Lower East Side, huge public parks and transatlantic steamersredwood saunasand boa constrictor iron-ons —And were to finish his songAnd pass me at the bathroom, whose floor is tileLike grouted Chiclets, all glitter strippedTo the handsome wax of the lead singer who was offhandAnd returned to his peopleTo pee, get a beer, and watch the next band—”

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