The Last Limousine Ride

The enclosed sound of the prisoners crying echoed from behind the bars. They wept in unison, their voices gagging. The cities all cried, horns blowing. A number of cars pulled off the road. It was not even within a possible realm. It was too hard to believe. All of life's values depreciated suddenly. All colors cried. The disc jockey wept to three million. Yoko was screaming her very life's breath. So loud, so fucking loud, it was too real. Sean looked down from the twelfth floor of the Dakota. And God, as I'm crying now, young Sean was scared. Terrified. The future is what scared him, as it scares me. The Soviets cried, the cows cried. I myself hadn't cried this hard since my mother died in '73. God bless her. It's like one of the extreme and independent voices, both in tone and outlook, had gone. He no longer exists in the physical world as we know it. And I could quote lyrics, songs, books, and I could recreate visions of his genius. St. John the artist, St. John the martyr. And it happened sometime in New York, the big shit hole in the world. There are so many maniac assholes in this town, my friend Craig writes me from the city. He tells me of a man on Staten Island asking him for a cigarette and then jumping in front of a moving train. It's what Lou Reed calls "bad luck." It's what I call "the modern strain." Any possibility in an overpopulated city. St. John the artist, St. John the martyr. It was the last limousine ride.