Morrison performs a series of affable pats to a cushion
on a backstage sofa. This, to signal the next woman who
loves without hope. If you sport a stiffy for all creation,
sooner or later, you take it out. Wave it at butterfingered
fandom. Before the show, a woman makes zipper noises,
emancipates him from the infamous leather pants. Which
he steps out of. Manzarek, the organist, bangs to be let in
and a joke about organ parts comes to mind. Morrison
elects to rediscover the orthodoxies of a Marlboro. First,
he thumbs a lighter wheel. Then, a hand positions flame
to the tip end of the cigarette. Zigzags of smoke become
fog-wreathed rollercoaster curves then gray boutonnieres.
This woman, his Florida guide, is from Ohio. And maybe
Miss Ohio thinks, What’s one more fall between acrobats?
Jim Morrison isn’t looking for a future with a house. Kids.
Membership in Cougar Octagon Optimist Club of Dayton.
Meaning, to him, the Buckeye State might as well be Mars.
He shakes his hair. Certain lighting adores a mane of hair.
This March night, the air is an atomization of discontent.
And so he wonders if some invisible man in the sky,
high above the strongbox that is America, fantasizes
stepping out of Paradise. Maybe needs a little time or
maybe to see if the revenant flesh ever gets to be a bore.
And not just to wheedle a welcome-back trumpet fanfare.
A eucharist of blotter LSD is bringing on the color wheel,
rainbowing the upturned face of the woman holding him.
And he smiles. Generations of dead know that smile
as reminiscent of fire shoveled by envious angels.