In the radio right now
after fifteen new releases and
an old chestnut, something from
the vaults,

every one trying to escape;
the only place they can go
is into me; it is damn
uncomfortable and getting

worse; I put my head
down between my knees
and the radio shuts up
temporarily because it knows

something about madness
too; then turning the old song
into a key and using it to
release the river within

me; free as milk set loose
upon a table, upon my table,
cereal disregarded; what am I
doing here in this moment

with new songs and this old
bastard of a tune that Captain
Beefheart wrote, that he
streamlined to commercial

success which it never
achieved as far as I can
tell; tell me — did he end up
like me, head on his knees,

unknowing, no future,
he and I lined up end to
end with only this song
between us, this sad buffer,

no clear spot here
to help me get by?