Backdoor Postcard

artwork: ralph murre

Backdoor Postcard

by Albert DeGenova

I read you Jack, Loud but not so clear anymore – you put the American landscape into words, made it your own.  But what did you leave for me in this new century?  On your quest for “it” – no mind – transcendence – leaving the post-bomb generation madness behind – as Charlie Parker would close his eyes and blow himself into the shelter of his crazy alto saxophone – Jazz man! you blew yourself into the pages of your notebooks and became the asphalt of sad Rt. 66, the gravel voice of all-night diners, the breath of the hungry wind that blows from San Francisco to New York to Tangiers.  You blew your words and brains out with a bottle of cheap wine – where is “it” at now, Old Angel Midnight?

I’m drowning in this new century, Jack – electricity and plastic and Wi-Fi nights of virtual conversation – programmed thinking, programmed wars, programmed music, programmed religion.  I’m thirsty for a glass of Grandpa’s dago red – Miles is in the sky – my bed was so cold this morning, the thermostat lost its memory – cell phone rings and no one is there, I’m out of signal bars.  Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go, we’re all gonna fuckin’ explode!

cold rain, sleepless –

beard grows

whisker by whisker

~ first published in Postcards to Jack (Naked Mannekin Press)