In the middle of a set full of his best black shit Sinatra laughed like a whip Reminded him of dixie whistling mingled with georgia snow cotton negro king loaded on coke and whips
Whippin a Range
Whippin an escalade with lazy rims say, you reckon I weep into the microphone like a home man ass whippin backstage nigga crying crayon blue I used to love yous
'told him to turn around and cross in the right direction
Who told him
you, who?
Neurotic nonchalance not ours maybe? Whose?
Church Marquis says Gods maybe doctrinaire jesus maybe zoot parade maybe
I'm not going back out on that stage maybe not a blues for Richard Pryor maybe a riot where we burn through the right side of town this time etch a path around the afterlife aggressively distant faux suede ballet flats, then get distracted in that spotlight
