A quick Sundi drive up to the Tobacco store.
And how many bourbons could there actually be?
Straight down the buffalo trail:
Preston and east on Eastern Parkway to Hunter Thompson’s
(he ran from here like a bat outta hell) neighborhood and
Mark Anthony Mulligan’s streets. Where is he I wonder?
(a homeless angel)
The ol’ Highlands :
And I am talking Louisville, Kentucky blues shit RN.
Behind an ol haunt, in the parking lot of St. Brigid
a homeless man washes his feet from the church hose.
I say, “that’s one way to get Jesus to wash your feet brother!”
Offer a bottled water, he smiles and says, “bless you.”
I always have water in my painted pony art car for this.
Back out to the streets of this lonesome southern wanna-be town.
If you stay here you gonna get stuck here sense of place.
The long way home, through Germantown :
A line around the local little ice cream joint!
And isn’t this a fine day to dream?
I scream you scream :
The radio is playing some sentimental
open road song on the local bluegrass radio show.
A double stop twines memories from the fiddle and
these streets I have ran, explored, they know me.
I know them lamenting like the E minor chord to A minor chord.
This song is a cookie-cutter twenty-somethings bluegrass
new grass mindless recreation of the working man’s blues.
These streets are just like worn out metaphors.
Nobody goes down the dark mines around here anymore.