Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Tonight I go to see Doc.

All the donuts have names that sound like prostitutes
And the moon's teeth marks are on the sky
Like a tarp thrown all over this
And the broken umbrellas are like dead birds
And the steam comes out of the grill
Like the whole town is ready to blow
And the bricks are all scarred with jailhouse tattoos
And everyone is behaving like dogs

And the horses are coming down Violin Road
And Doc looks dead on his feet

I nod at him and he just stares away into the distance, his back hunched, still playing chess with a man in a felt hat and woolen coat just as old as he.

Both are coughing int he rain. 

the downtown trains are full with
all those Brooklyn girls
they try so hard to break out of their little worlds
unaware of what's on the other side

they scatter scatter like crows

they have nothing that will ever capture your heart. Plaiun, ordinary.
theyr'e just thorns without the rose

The bar is quiet as it always is
this place is special, a place for us

And no one brings anything small into the bar
They all started out with bad directions
And the girl behind the counter has a tattooed tear
One for every year He's gone she said
Such a crumbling beauty
Ehhhh, there's nothing wrong with her a hundred dollars won't fix
She has that razor sadness that only gets worse
I ask about her and about Doc and she responds
They have been here as long as I have though
we watch the others come and go
And all the rooms they smell like diesel

She asks if I want a room tonight

you take on the dreams of the ones who have slept there
And I'm lost in the window
And I hide in the stairway
And I hang in the curtain
And I sleep in your hat

With the clang and the thunder of the Southern Atlantic going by
And the clock ticks out like a dripping faucet
Till you're full of rag water and bitters and blue ruin
And you spill out over the side to anyone who'll listen

And I've seen it all
I've seen it all through the yellow windows of the evening train

Your choice. Doc the Man or the Girl.


  1. Surely you kid, Maurice. The choice is yours.

  2. So you're at Ninth & Hennepin, eh? God, it always comes back to music, doesn't it...

    I think I'll second Typer the Typing Typist on this one. Your choice. Especially since we don't know why we're choosing them.

  3. Doesn't really matter to me, but let's go with Doc, as he's the only one you've given us a name for.

    -Don't Shoot The Messenger-