I can't

god
if I could measure all those shit hotels
with a proper
white shaman's stick
show'em to angels who taught me
measures...

make'em burn like copper
shine like red light passages
of Amsterdam's
holographic spleen
make'em rooms my midnite friend snacks
love shacks
make'em maids
experimental thrown-in-the-coin-an-forget
machines
infinite positions
skin fluxus
hair on eyes
junkie on junkie

all fresh and shining
in tired grit bluesmen
harmonica's blurred existence
state of mind
perfectly hollow bleeding
karma
dried off completely
change my home and pants
and walk and talk
and booze
and women

god
if I could measure my how-does-it-feels-at-midnite
good ole Hank would blush in his
loneliness
& the lord
would've started drinking
all before world's end

some of my people
might be dead
by now...

god
if I only had one chance
to measure them right
'fore the fade-outs they all planned
so gently...