blues-

to an empty room…

of chattering,

the splatter

of date night upon

the barmaids,

masters and men-

and yet,

the band plays on

as

the dying middle class ticket

demands

whore’s bill

goes on

with time

and the dull

‘toot’

of synthesized Satchmo

nearly happened

they yammer

of,

television

and precision they only

lie-

a night to do what not,

what ought not be,

scheduled confining,

but have at anyway

oh, those self-sold

responsible-

as the photog appears

as Townshed,

were the guitar

never met

blues-

to an empty-headed room-

of dollar signs

yes,

the same

that resides the blame

‘long with

the self (afflicted)

ramen noodle poets

and note takes,

and those envies

one can’t

shake