Twice Born A Vagabond
A Novel [Copr. 2008]
By D. DeWitt Thomas
Chapter Fourteen


Tommy Hall is a philosopher and a gifted lyric writer. In my opinion his work is spiritually prophetic. We are working on a new tune called "Slip Inside This House". It is a very long song but it never gets boring. One of the verses goes;
One eyed men are really reigning
They just march in place until
Two eyed men with mystery training
Finally fill the power field
Three eyed men are not complaining
They just yo-yo where they will
And rise outside this house
Don't pass it by
I,ve learned to lower my metabolism like the Mexicans do when they take a siesta because the summers down in south Texas can really get hot and humid. Roky is supposed to meet me over at Tommy's motel room later today so that he can catch a ride with us to the gig tonight. Since Tommy isn't here, I think I will leave my car and walk or maybe hitch a ride back to the funky mansion. Man, it's too damn hot here in Houston in the summer. If I can just bear it for a couple of months more I will move to Austin and get away from this hot and humid Gulf Coast weather. Tommy calls this big town Jerusalem. It is a port city and the streets are full of all races and creeds of humanity densly packed like sardines in a tin. No one seems to have a sense of inconvenience though about the scarcity of space here in Space City.
Striking out in the direction of Old Galveston Road I keep a leisurely but steady pace and stop to remove a small pebble from my shoe and roll a smoke as I make my way toward the oil refineries. Along the way I pass Wasps, Niggers, Chinks, Spicks, and Crackers kicking their way through the steamy fog layer on the pavement as the rain drizzles onto the concrete. I glance down into the gutter where someone has tossed a bloodsoaked carpet remnant. Looks like someone got beat to death on it. The smell of the musty rainsoaked freshwet old wooden houses in the neighborhood fills the air as I spot Chris Escalante, our roadie, pulling up to the curb in Tommy's rusty red Nash Rambler stationwagon. "We can't find Roky, man. Christ man, where the f*ck is he? You know we have a gig tonight." he said. Not knowing, I shrugged. Chris continued, "I don't know man, he went off with some quasi-religious doper who was dressed in a sheet... said he was gonna score." Luckily, I hitched a ride with him that dropped me off close to a street corner back at the Western Skys. As I re-entered Tommy's motel room we saw Tommy zonked out on the couch listening to the Grateful Dead. He rose up on one elbow and asked "Want to drop some purple haze... it's Osley man?" We said "Sure." Chris and I got back into the car and drove downtown, parked, and started to walk around near Love Street looking for Roky but with no success. I paused to avoid the onrush of pedestrians on legs carrying overweight bodies topped with faceless heads. Even if they did have faces, I probably would not have seen any that were familiar, only strangers whom I have never seen before now. I will never see them again. It is eery how similar in appearance they are in their anonimity. Wrinkled and creased faces with lines permanently chisled into them. The mark of the beast must have apparently become scar tissue from the place on the forehead where the third eye had been otomized. Worried expressions indellibly engraved because of annoyances nibbling away their patience concerning things about which they could not do a damn thing. Assuming and judgemental expressions on anonymous faces, determined that their faces are more pleasing than mine in spite of their problems. In spite of their angry expressions they are convinced that their life is better than mine. It is the fantasy of the walking zombies. So, I write:


You hang your head like the living dead
But you just don't have a clue.
You let other people pull your strings
And you do like puppets do.
You use other people and tell someone else
What you think they're worth.
Your head is in the clouds
And your eyes are blind.
Why don't you come down to Earth?

You are full of empty promises.
You are nothing but a fake.
Your words are counterfeit.
All the time apologizing, kissing up, compromising,
jumping into other people's shit.
You plan and scheme to manipulate
the situation tho fit your needs.
You think you are slick
but you are really sick,
lying about your deeds.
So you can just kiss the crack of my ass!

Copr. D. DeWitt Thomas 2002

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