311 California Street: a poem by Jon Vreeland
Was a two story, two bed two bath palace, with a place to make a fire, and piano by the door.
And when the sun burned I built stuff out of pretty dead wood, taught piano to children for $50/hour; but as the moon shined, I played those blood soaked ivories, drove through the arid black deserts hoping people would like
serenading the late nights and vampires and a slew of big bellied sloths
I banged my bloody claws on my black and white ivory keys until they were covered in red, then trundled through the seedy desert towns, where the milk had gone sour, where the kids played with sharp objects and loud awful bangs,
while a gang of felines screamed at the night’s awful clamor.
I’d return to 311 California Street, barely sleep then wake up, build more stuff out of more dead wood, teach piano, play more songs for the rueful night and desert kids with nothing better to do (Oh God bless ‘em and their zeal, their utter will to be weird)
but no matter how far I drove to
I always made it back to my two story, two bed, two bath palace, with a place to make a fire, and piano by the door.