by Randy Burns

So, dig it man, me and my friends hang at this place called the Warlock every night. Small Jazz club, sits on the corner of 57th and 8th. The city breeds these clubs and the hip that love them. Not just the old or young hip, or the ones in between, but every outsider blessed with perpetual knowledge and vision. Most are dead, but even they still frequent the joint - they'll come in some nights and join us. Some actually died in the Warlock and that's cool man, I wouldn't mind that myself. Me and my friends think we own the place, so why would we be afraid to die where we've chosen to live? Smoke chokes inside the blue lights, women of all kinds with men of all kinds. Don't mean a shit to me. Never has, man. They're living something that never bothers anyone. Locust, the barman, books the acts with the same touch an artist can sense moods. Whether they're only his moods doesn't matter. Out of that rich blue smoke I hear the horns sing to me, man, and the bands are always 'on' and cookin. The rest of the world lives outside, outside The Warlock everywhere. The city's so thick with outsiders that I have a hard time finding one-- if you can dig what I mean, where I'm coming from. A few beers, some fine weed and cool sounds break into us - and we're there with the ghosts at our table. We keep a few empty chairs for them. Always, man, always.

One night-the jazz owns me. The next night-a ghost tells a story that won't split from my head. This one night it was Lois-she worked as a waitress. Her night off was mine on, if you catch me. I had a lot of chicks that hung in the Warlock, but the available Lois was mine. Unwritten, with no shitty pretentious plans, Lois and I could fly as though time meant nothing. No, "Who was she," or "where you been" ever hit an airwave between us. Straight down and open, Lois and me. That's why it worked so well. Sitting on my lap or in the chick's room puking, nothing changed our mental magnets. The ghosts loved us together. I could feel it each time we pierced each other, alone, at the end of the night.

Let's get something straight. I'm telling you about the club where I hang, about friends and my forever diggable Lois, but you know nuthin man, you don't know shit about me. You're just shitbird liberals out there, sheep in liberal's clothing. I know you and I know that I'll never dig you, man. Never. You ever come into the Warlock and the ghosts will kill you. Or they'll get you to kill yourself. Either way's fine with me. You self-proclaimed liberals don't stand for anything anymore. You don't smell, breathe, or live it. You won't fight or stand up to anything but your fucking editors! Go on, ass-holes, tell me I'm wrong and that I'm one stupid cocksucker. Try and tell me that.

You know, if it wasn't for Lois, I probably would have killed somebody by now, but the sex is too good man. Our energy never stops dreaming. If I had a dollar for every Lois in the world I'd be four dollars richer. That's how I got it figured. Maybe four more Lois's in the whole world, maybe. I wonder what the poor people are doing.

The chick loves me with her legs, ass, mouth, cunt and imagination. Lois got the mind, man, she takes and makes the sex we have, like other women cook for their families in spotless financial kitchens. So what if sometimes she acts like a fucking freak. You gonna tell her she's acting like one? Not me, she's my freak, and she'll be my freak until she splits or vanishes. Runs away with a ghost or something. Yeah…. if she leaves it'll be with a ghost. I wouldn't do a thing about that. She knows em like I do, and the ghosts got their memories of cocks and pussies too, man, can't blame em for that. Can't go blamin a blues ghost for nothin.

Inside the Warlock, are disgusted liberals, jazz nuts and homos. Deviants from every road traveled. Lois and I don't care. Our sex kitchen is hers, man, whatever she says, whatever way she wants it. She's a fuckin Donna Reed in black leather boots and a whip. She can break my cock so it won't work for weeks, but I'll hold back her hair when she's puking in the Warlock.

Lois and I got this place we go called twilight. Twilight's between me and her only. It's between so many things you fucks will never understand. ~