Elvis and Jayne hit the highway searching for the last Injun tribe

by Jay Levon

If I looked like Elvis
and you Jayne Mansfield
then together we could
drive this tall-finned
lay-it-back-black-Caddy-lac
straight off the rails,
out past the new territories
and into the shadow southlands
where the Red Man will still
scalp a motherfucker
for looking at his lady with
anything more than a
"pardon me ma'am,"
look in his eyes.

Out there men
are unencumbered
by:
Jesus,
the stock market,
fast food,
or any of what passes
for progress.

I'm hoping my black hair
and dark complexion
will gain me their acceptance,
and being accompanied
by your Jayne Mansfield
double-D's and ass built for
sex-fuck-sin can't hurt either.

Read me some Sartre baby,
it's time to take this hi-way
by force.

Forget not the opium

by Jay Levon

I miss the opium sunrises,

morning defiantly greeted
with empty heart,
and mind devoid of guilt,
regret, and pain.

Rawness is the new me
open wound and bloody teeth.
I count the broken bones
and hope not for relief.

(Take two of these
and fuck away the morning,
says the good doctor
in my head.)

Remember always
the sore cock
and empty balls!
It was these that carried me
through the wilderness
of her crippled, angry heart.

And forget not the opium
the sweet, sweet opium

A night long ago

by Jay Levon

how about we make a scene
tonight?

get dressed up
and head to the bar.

start out with shots,
then mixed drinks
for you,
and Mexican beer
for me.

we'll dance like lovers
to old Motown songs.

we'll dance like children
to Cheap Trick
midwestern rock.

i can whisper in your ear
as you use your hand
to get me hard
under the table.

we can fuck
in the parking lot
then throw a prayer
to the ghost of
Hank Williams,

may he somehow
lead us home.

and you can hurt me
tomorrow
and you can hate me
tomorrow
and you can curse me
tomorrow
and we can resume
our miserable lives
tomorrow,

but
baby,
how about we make a scene
tonight?

Your name was always my favorite word

by Jay Levon

Remember that cheap Moscato
we used to drink, the one with
the little bare feet
on the bottle?

Tonight I drink alone.
Moscato still,
but a different brand
which is fitting I suppose.

The house is empty,
and there isn't much
I want to do, so I
search for meaning

in my illegible handwriting
while listening to Lou Reed
sing about his
Coney Island Baby.

And I drink,
and drink,
and
drink.

Big Block Heart (for my Dad)

by Jay Levon

I watch an old truck go down the highway.
It's strapped to a shaky flatbead trailer,
an old Chevy, maybe a '49 or '50.
Is it heading to a restorers garage
to be lovingly tweaked and massaged?
Will it be pushed until it reaches potential?

I am filled with envy.
I wish someone would save me from the crusher,
and scrape away my rust and faded paint.
Give me new purpose and pride,
and take me cruising on a Saturday night.

I could be a steel sculpture
on rubber wheels
(sleek, shiny, and mean)
with a big block heart.

born under a southern moon

by Jay Levon

i was born
on the edge of midnight
on the outskirts
of a junkyard
under a heat wave
southern moon
to a dead woman
and an
invisible man
and there
were no angels watching
I can promise you that
not on the edge of midnight
not on the outskirts
of a junkyard

i like to imagine
a shotgun serenade
and a coyote symphony
welcomed me
into this world
but that's just
poetic bullshit
i was a bloody stump
of skin cells
and mashed up
molecules, the same
as any one else

my momma mixed
whiskey with
her breast milk
my daddy cut off
my foreskin
with a rusty blade
and fed the scrap
to a stray mutt
my cock still
barks at the moon

i was born
on the edge of midnight
on the outskirts
of a junkyard
under a heat wave
southern moon