Greenhorn

I would say I’m nodding out. I can’t move. Which is a double pain in the ass because first I can’t look away from the tv and they’ve been interviewing Nixon for the past I don’t know how goddam long – shit, I’d vote the motherfucker back in right now if they’d just show some Get Smart or I Love Lucy instead. And second I think I’m dying and no one’s noticed.

There’s a buzzing under my skin and although it feels good I know it ain’t the good kind. If I could even lift my little finger I’d be enjoying the shit out of this. I can hear the singer telling that skinny-ass dancer why she reminds him of some chick in a Bulgakov novel – asshole pronounces it ‘Bulgar-koff. He’s got her in the corner, leaning against the wall, arm over her like a scaffold and she’s just giggling him into her pants. She don’t know shit about Bulgar-koff. Singer knows this, too. What is she, sixteen?

Lying here, dying and all, silent, I’ve had some time to wonder why in hell I never noticed what a sack of predatory, junkie motherfuckers we are. Except the drummer, but he switched on Nixon so fuck him too.

Someone must notice soon. We’re onstage in half an hour. Man I can’t turn my head to see if my sax is still there. Guitarist just walked past. His teeth are getting bad.

I wonder where the woman with the rooster got to. Scratch that. I know damn sure where the woman with the rooster got to. She’s away with my song. Not that it’s my song anymore.

When did I first see her? Must be closer – death, I mean – memory’s turned to smoke, blue-grey shreds. Fuck Crosssbones. Fuck his pusher-ass and his phoney ghetto-speak. Fifty notes for a spikeful of mortality. I wouldn’t mind seeing her, you know, even with the crazy-eyed cockerel of hers. She was beautiful, eyes like falling back into the Dead Sea at midnight. Like the dope, like the song.