dry-diving (a long and lonesome goodbye)

river run-down dusty
whipping winds of cloud and slips
into a stream of faded memory
pirates pilot old ghost ships

down the cracked and muddy mouth
dead trees in a skull-head grin
pale misty memories floating south
the ghosts of where we've been

the actor's headshot, it grows older
'til his sister, she comes crying
running naked no one told her
they were goin' out dry-diving

thirty years still in her teens
sitting smoking in the cellar
plastic crowns for self-appointed queens
pray to themselves no one'll tell her

that the coronation's cancelled
and the orchestra's gone home
no payoffs need be handled
no one sits waiting by the phone

clock runs backwards, it's been tainted
scrapes to get by; it's just surviving
and drinks until it's fainted
off the wall and dies dry-diving

the mad minister is preaching
on all the souls that he could save
but the sinners he's been reaching
already live down in their grave

the lookout in the crow's nest
working on his midnight tan
grabs a shooting star and says
'are you looking for me, man?'

but the star just burns his fingers
and leaves the lookout sighing
the glowing memory lingers
of the night they spent dry-diving

dragon comes a' courtin'
dancin' to the bossa nova
like the pulp artist's rendition
of dime novel casanova

the jester's in the corner
with the bearers and sedan
the purple velvet to adorn her
clenched crumpled in his hand

while the jester he lies weeping
for a love who's late arriving
he doesn't know she's still home sleeping
she's dreaming of dry-diving

now the river run-down rusty
flows out into an ocean
of memories rank and musty
stinkin' of embalming lotion

and the passengers and crews
in the rotted stateroom for a ball
say there's nothing left to lose
when you got nothing left at all

the sky burns red as the sun sets
down over the last horizon
watch our fadin' silhouettes
as from the deck we go dry-diving

FOOTNOTES FROM A LOST AND WANDERING TRIBE
Parts I & 2

I - Pilgrimage
That's where they all end up you know,
the dreamers and the drifters
and the penny-ante grifters,
Vegas:
city of sun-baked sin
ghosts glossed over with Disney frosting
and a yellow smiley-face veneer

He rode in his drop-top El Dorado
Cigarette ash floating back into the air
Lighter glow reflecting in his thirty dollar Ray Bans
Like twin suns baking the Nevada sands
Beating his hand to a Bon Jovi song
On the only good radio station for miles around
Wondering how he became that classic rock dinosaur
Singing along to the South Jersey sound.
She was riding shotgun shooting her mouth off
Between healthy portions of nail and gloss
And the wind steamed her seat shaking her ass.

There's a shining city, a diamond zirconium
Set in the rusty gold-tinted brass
Of the Nevada desert sands,
A jewel made of glass
That refracts and reflects like the devil's prism-cut claw,
Emerging from his flame-baked, sand-crusted,
Velvet 'till it cuts your face
So sharp and so quick you only feel the bleeding
On your way home
Paw.
Like a diamond-set fang in a used-car dealer's
Polyester-and-pleather smile,
Purring an ermine "Welcom home!"
The dark priest who absolves himself as he
Cuts your throat reluctantly.

They hit the Strip, of course,
Talking nostalgically of Frankie and Dino
Of mobsters and whores,
Of Diamond Jim Kelly - wish you were here -
And they look at the spandex-stretched tourists
With their children in undertow,
And they can't help but sneer
As they bask in the second-hand glow
Of neon-baked memories.

And now they've set the stage,
She in her alcoholic, irony-grey gauze,
Peering through eyes of veiny red,
Ballerina tip-toeing to a tune just inside her ear
Around his pornographic temper
That stumbles through pot smoke likea
Minotaur through a maze
Until it finds the golden grail of rage -
Five purple fingers against the pale of her arms
Five bruises blossom -
Linked to her childhood through two
Gold leaf foil-flavored brass rings.

II - Worship at the Mecca Room
A lost little boy peers from within bleary brown eyes
Taking in the stemware clink
And Virginia soil stink of the Texans and their
Dropout mistresses with the bleached sprayed-high-stiff hair.
Clinging to the mic
As he launches into his world-weary and wise
Retired drama queen routine, and wonders
If anyone anywhere with forty miles
Cares anymore anyway.
Selling his songs like an indicted preacher
Still tries to sell afterlife insurance,
Songs that once pulsed to the beat of his soul
And made women slow-dance
Their fingers through his hair
In their cream-colored silk fantasies.

And his hollow eyes peer through the nicotine curtains
And yellow-gelled columns of smoke
Spying the irony-eyed couple at table twenty-nine
Smirking as he spoke.
She in her frosted hair and sneering gloss.

Behind her battleship-blue steel marble eyes,
Behind her pale white makeup and space-black bangs
Behind the sarcastic smirk set in ivory fangs,
Swoons a little girl seduced.

What can the eyeless black Ray Bans do
But laugh as she sets off for
A green room autograph.
And he holds her hand like a delicate toy,
The porcelain cool he can never enjoy
And he takes her
He takes her future
(From what horrible fate she doesn't even know
Finding no illumination in the afterglow)
He takes her hand -
From smile to hand to pelvis, she doesn't care to remember
That her laugh shimmered like a mirage in the desert
Forever far off, taunting with possibilities.

And the metal-bite-cool of the motel air conditioning
From the dust and the smoke and the lights
And the feel of freedom as it blows through her hair.
Trailing the ashes from the fire
Of the woman she once was.