The Little Rock

The mind is numb and the throat is sore from a slog of singing and roaring in speech.
With the onslaught of people and rooms smelling of feackle or asparagus scented pee.
Alone on the bed half glad half dead from the energy given to all.
With Vampires and fascist whip their tongue on you lashes
not letting you speak your mind as clear as you wish
You meander through thought and trail to talk the drivel of all this great nation

Now the muscles are sore and weary and the bed is so inviting
But the worn out knees and pinching back give little respite in the lying
Eyelids flop and waver, dreams flash and go
as your heat melts the matteress and irons the sheets below.

Wake before it's too early and call me in the morn
for tomorrow we head south once more to follow the rivers run
and up and down this highway of life we peddle out bikes and wares
Singing of life gone before us and wondering if somebody cares


Mise le meas Sept 9th at 1am reaching deep for inspiration as I lie in my La Quinta bed in Little Rock, AR, worn out from 900 miles in the last few day with two big spins to come before I get home to my own bed which I grave as overdue comfort. Must come back and revisit the stanzas here.