I ride, Night Train, down Lankershim,
in black boots and leather, and
shooting Knob Creek with riders
telling history in pictures
etched permanent on proven arms.
But there is a history I keep of you,
of what you’ve done to me in those dark rooms,
with liquor in a glass, and liquid changes
spilling out a front door, filling
for a moment the street with your loud
cut-time easy laugh that sounds, God
exactly like her, exactly like another round,
exactly like tonight –
you know, whatever I want, or
whatever you want.

In your own sweet way you improvise
inside me from outside, with hands and fingers
pressing on strings, lips pressing, shaping,
playing my favorite things, valves clatter,
making air a messenger that sings.
I was yours then, I am now, tonight,
in any La Ve Lee or Blue Note,
you take me any way you want, slow, down,
cut, in a minor key, or any two five
one giant step cycle, roaring down Sunset
up at dawn, hours since the last shot,
an hour since the last fuck you but you’re
still in my head and that’s the history
you make in me, etched in dreams an endless
solo break that has changed the way I everything.