“And the Wind Howled Like a New York Poem” a poem written by Me, art featured by my wife Alycia Vreeland
It was somewhere in the desert where the music had no teeth that the RV caught fire, committed suicide on I-15. The cooler nearly empty, just ice cold hands reaching for ice cold alcoholism in a blue and white bucket of plastic shame.
We called for help; no tow truck company would hear of it; no wife girlfriend mother father sister brother would come to our predicted rescue
(and the beer was really almost gone).
After twelve hours of searching waiting drinking smoking we swallowed every can of every beer and I read some Ginsberg,
until a lover of one of our “friends” showed to helped us back on the highway, back to our gig through the sandy desert storm.
We continued our trek through the cold windy desert, off to Vegas for
a couple of shows and lots of terrible bands without pianos organs strings intelligence, and when we played a fight broke out between a couple of Drunks, landing on the piece of dead elephant they wished they had.
I was happy about the trip after all: the desert moon and sun, (and the $2,000 we were paid for only 15 minutes of an okay performance was fine by me).
The next day on the way home we stopped for food at a ghost town
there was nothing but shadows wood and giant grapefruit for sallow lighting. The terrible bands with the terrible teeth were gone No more bad lyrics being conveyed through a screeching microphone, smothered and lathered in a mess of ugly feedback and distortion
Like violent vacuum cleaners with Ginsberg still folded and protruding
From the ripping of my back pocket.
And the wind howled like a New York poem.