Winter 2008

Table of Contents - Vol. IV, No. 4


Poetry    Essays    Fiction    Book Reviews

Dan Cuddy


Riders On The Storm

I wanted to be
Jim Morrison
oh the ladies would throw
the wet silk of themselves to him
and his sweat drove them crazy—

I remember
the haze of smoke
the sanitarium
Frankfurt 68
the revolution
Freud and
Danny the Red
the clopping of boots
and that dark dark-haired vixen of a woman—

we kissed
under the bridge
the moon like a skull
she was Goth before Goth

oh where was her heart
I wore mine on my sleeve
I took a little trip
the snake of sound
rising like a vortex
the keyboard
all fingers
the microphone
in time-space-emotion

the stars looked down
the steeples rebuilt
the bombs’ echoes
and the Wagnerian Nazi
the anguish broken
into notes
the scale of history
the shining fish quivering
the river cold

and can you wade
to the other side

touch me, woman, touch me

oh Jim, it was
a long time ago
but the dreams remain
a confetti of dreams
names written on each speck
like on a tombstone
the party over
the mess on the grass
and glittering
the phantasm
of a dark-eyed woman in spangled black

oh that dark-haired LA woman
young twenty
the fire of the rolled weed
and buddy Bob Starr in Sweden
his wife with us but sobbing

the bounce of fingers on the keyboard
and how I wanted to be you, Jim
she was in love with you
she thought you were so……

and I was a shadow
I was in love
and she loved you
the phantom of the stage
all the rage
in Frankfurt
that night
her eyes wide
I could have died
and she
wouldn’t care
I could have lain there
the lungs
the heart
oh she was drugged
you in her dreams
not me
and now she is dead
car crash 1985
and you, Jim, are dead
a cemetery of vanity
and the moon so much
the skull
at us all
the salt of the earth
from that dropped acid
that made us crazy
and the purple music

the riders on the storm


© Dan Cuddy



Poetry    Essays    Fiction    Book Reviews

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