Smoking Joe Logan
Smoking Joe Logan here, from the dark side of the planet,
where the cub scouts know their Uzis with veneer.
The daughters of rage shimmy across the sand,
and you can get lost in their vowels.
Tall men slap me hard on the back and claim
they'll be my friend if I tell them the
secret of eternity.
I don't want any new friends tonight,
sitting in my damp end zone,
broadcasting this ornery futile game one
more time.
Smoking Joe Logan once raised his flag here,
but all flags turn eventually to shreds
in the angry wind.
There was a comfortable limo waiting for
my escape but when I got into it a cold
chill grabbed me and I can't remember
the secret rendezvous.
People call me up and tell me how much they appreciate
the music I play, but the joke is on them,
all the music got locked up because the powers that
run the show felt it was all seditious.
It's just me, moving my mouth muscles,
that's the music you think you hear,
and the cub scouts are putting up the barricades,
and the daughters of rage are naming names.
The secret of eternity? It doesn't last.
Smoking Joe Logan here,
still tossing the dice, still in the game,
but the dogs they begin to howl something feisty,
and the I.O.U.s are waiting on line.
This song is for you. Let me turn it up a notch.
The fire is getting closer.
The fire is calling on us.
---Scott Wannberg
listening to Dave Alvin and the Guilty Men
Interstate City CD
guitar ship
for jerry garcia
definite Earth.
no judgment.
comes now, beating vulnerable beautiful heart.
not everyone can do the song and dance.
the Soiree comes calling,
bows in your honor,
enter the music's survival,
swing from the tall trees,
languages feel you.
---Scott Wanberg
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