Summertime

Summertime 

The jetstream thoughts echoed there.

Man had a plan, then he hit the sand.

That 'somebody did me' voice

talking in my head. I'd rather listen 

to Traffic or to "Eminence Front,"

               but I can't dress to kill

cause I haven't washed my clothes.

The same motor cycles in my mind:

"The boss stole my song." When I know

they never listened. I know they can't 

have heard because they wouldn't 

     have did me like they did.

          My lovers would not have.

               The others would not.

                    Bothers me not.

Yet the jetstream thoughts echo there.

The man had a plan, so he got a tan.

               I didn't join up. 

          The party was done.

My mother says, "There're plenty

               of fish in the sea."

And the V-twins on 3 are driving 

me mad with their double-clutch shot

explosions. The hot tires' dust blows

into my living room, then spots black

from the rain. Finally, thunder blasts

us bikers into Mike's where the beer

     is piss and teens drink free.

Yet the jetstream thoughts echo here.

The man had a plan, so he got a tan.

Now I know what my mother's felt.

               Why she was hiding.

               Even Utube sends me Adams 

          Clinical ads for a 'study.'

And my boss never did. They're dead.

More then once. They bought the hills.

Got flooded out. We're all flooded.

We're all forgot. It's a really sad song.

     No wonder they didn't steal it.

Yet it still cycles on. Once the rain's gone.

     At least we're dressed to kill.

Riding free. Hair blowing in the wind.

     Just not ready for a blowout.

          Or a stick in the belt.

              Or a corduroy road.

                    Or the groovy bridge. 

                         The high side.

Yet jetstream thoughts still echo here.

The man had a plan, so he hit the sand.

[persona]