TOM THUMB'S BLUES
No; I came back
from desolation row, the scent of despair lingering
in my clothes and under my hat. I hungered
for sunlight and wind. Casanova, last I saw,
was still passed out in the alley, awaiting
the Second Coming of Robert Zimmerman.
So I got bored and left him there, struck out towards the horizon
on Highway 61. Just follow the blood, you said.
Right. Just follow the blood.
There was no blood, Bob. Just the bright blue sky
delineated with grey-white clouds. I know
that back there in the ghettos
all the Queen Janes and woulda-been Pablos
still think you're coming back.
Joke's on them. You're off
on a 61-city whirlwind tour of Nirvana
and points West, stopping (at least)
in Malibu, Ponte Vedra, Sicily,
and Saigon, seeking the holy Greil.
The denizens of the dark, haunted places
have seen the last of you, and must subsist
on memories and dried blood. Every footfall
landed me closer to the unpromised land.
Nothing had changed. Or nothing much. Along about noon
the guitar case
started gettin' heavy.