My fingers pile-drive on the library desk
Before I play the keyboard like an organ
Thinking up witty rhymes and retorts,
Pretending to be a verbal virtuoso.
I have too many ideas to play so smoothly,
I have too many unfinished epics in me.
I have cantatas, fifths, and sonatas
But in my own imagination I remain
A dejected persona non grata.
Where is my rock star,
My Dionysus, and care?
Why have I thrown that classic Soft Parade
Into the Crystal Ship’s tattered snare?
Jimmy Morrison,
Mr. Mojo Risin’,
Help me break on through
To the other side,
And I will tutor you in shaman spells,
Bach’s Third, and genocide.
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