BOOK: ‘Black Cat In The Super Unknown’ Available Now
Black Cat In The Super Unknown is 11 poems of experimental, psychedelic writing in which you’re a traveler through time and space, birthed from lunar womb, freefalling through mindscape and hallucinatory dreamtime, while black cat speaks to HAL who is dreaming of \\Bowman\David. This book was inspired by:
The Beatles, Cream, Jimi Hendrix, Blue Cheer, Saint Vitus, Badfinger, Black Sabbath, Ronnie James Dio, Three Dog Night, The Masters of Reality, Pink Floyd, Trouble/The Skull (Eric Wagner R.I.P.), Cheap Trick, Angel, Starz, Montrose, Nazareth, The Sweet, Electric Wizard, KISS, Aerosmith, Ten Years After, Boston, The Guess Who, Ted Nugent, Thin Lizzy, UFO, Queen, Led Zeppelin, Soundgarden, Blue Oyster Cult, The MC5, The Runaways, and Vanilla Fudge…,
2001: A Space Odyssey, Heavy Metal, Zachariah, Mandy, El Topo, Wizards, Yellow Submarine, Beyond The Black Rainbow, Magical Mystery Tour, Pink Floyd’s The Wall, Rocky Horror Picture Show, KISS Meets The Phantom, Zardoz, Rollerball, Logan’s Run, Head (The Monkees), Phantasm, A Ghost Story
The following poem appears in ‘Black Cat In The Super Unknown,’ a tribute to the Rockford Speedway slated for demolition October / November, 2023.
The Rockford Speedway Experience ’77
I got cat scratch fever
cranked on the 8-track
going a million miles an hour
around this track
the car rattles and shakes
each time I hit the gas
like a bucket of loose nuts
and left over bolts
steering column
feels like a missile
ready to launch
and I can hear
Nugent screaming
over the roar of my engine
as I head to checkered flag
into oblivion
I’m ready to break
out of the drag pack
and cross the finish line
in a cloud
of dust and exhaust
dropped mufflers
litter the track
and it feels like
I’m light years ahead
gone warp speed
defeating the sun
cruising in
from hyperspace
and points beyond
out on the track
the car’s in neutral
revving the engine
entertaining fans
squealing tires
looking bad ass
getting off on the sound
of this finely tuned
and tweaked out machine
a straight out product
of wrench and socket
Pennzoil and rags
sacrificing days off
and free weekends
checking and double checking
engine belts and brake pads
applying body decals
of this month’s sponsor
to make it right
to win the race
and take the trophy
ready to roll
in serious overdrive
when the light turns green
and all hell breaks loose
it comes down
to me and my Charger
becoming one
sharing parts and
valves and
metal springs
locked up, bolted down
rivets keep the body tight
shifting gears, firing up
inside this turbo
charged structure
of spark plug and piston
pumping gas
through super tubing
feeding the heart of this beast
tracking pulse through RPM’s
turn the key
tear up concrete
down shift and burnout
and do it defiantly
like you’re
Mr. Robert Plant
leather vest and torn jeans
a rock star in the spotlight
doing one last encore
before leaving
to party with groupies
and pack it up
back on the road
to the next town
and do it proudly
for the chicks to see
giving middle finger
loud and proud
because that’s why you race
and make house payments
on your ride
at the shop you work
pulling 14 hour days
fixing station wagons
for regular dudes
who have no concept
what a car truly is
and the magic it hides
deep inside engine block
modifying fuel track
jacking up chassis
now it’s a street beast
to look good in
cruisin’ round town
late at night
when the city’s gone to bed
except you
and yr friends
down by the river
tokin’ off pipes N papers
drinkin’ Night Train
listening to Blue Oyster Cult
heading to bed
when you see the sun
come up
over a pyramid
of beer cans and
Marlboro Red packs
it’s not about
the money
or trophies
it’s about
the chicks in the stands
hanging out with their friends
cutoff daisy dukes
and KISS Destroyer tank tops
looking cool
in dark sunglasses
drinking whiskey
out of plastic cups
chain smoking
Camel filters
way up high
in the bleachers
cheering us on
like they know us
like we’re gods
or movie stars
but just a bunch
of weekend racers
looking for free beer
and fifteen minutes
of fame
teenage blond hair
blowing around
in summer breeze
covers their faces
we never see
who they are
just so many ghosts
that haunt the back ways
of our minds
suntanned and slender
always up for action
listening to “Hair Of The Dog”
over track PA system
in between races
and glad their boyfriends
stayed home again
there’s a bunch of cars here
some out on the track
and back in the pits
opened up
full throttle
ready to roll, baby
hammer down the gas
like they’ve got
terminal lead foot disease
to have that energy
you had as a kid
parents said
your hair was too long
get a job
in your torn up
bell bottom jeans
wearing that faded and torn
Black Sabbath t-shirt
you got at the concert
Pec Fairgrounds, ‘72
bootleg, parking lot
when the world was right
and that sugar girl
was yr whole world
who seemed so high
but the candy’s sweet
part of that crowd
that rush
in the pit
of your stomach
worshipping Ozzy
Steven Tyler
willing to sell your soul
for rock N roll
smoking that bowl like
you did years back
and getting higher than hell
when your friends
would drive you home
after getting drunk
at some party
crawling away
to sleep it off
in the garage
sneaking back into the house
before everyone woke up
to leave for work
and you didn’t have this job
and these responsibilities
to pay bills
and you weren’t divorced
and life was simple
back in the good old days
when your drugs
were weed
beer
and Ten Years After
ready to rock out
at the drop of a hat
pick up and take off
at a moment’s notice
and toss yr stuff
in some old duffle bag
and ride the rails
like the hobos did
town to town
never staying long enough
to know the name
of the local tavern
like you saw in those
black and white movies
you watched
on Saturday afternoons
when it was raining outside
stoning out
in front of the TV
in your basement
with a fan blowing
smoke out the windows
and that’s the bottom line, man
no rules, no structure
you feel it
you do it
and never look back
listen to the sound of tires
creating some kind of
wild midnight fog
from all the smoke
of cars doing burn outs
creeps up the back
part of the bleachers
spreading out
over the track
smells like a bonfire
of rubber trash
and spent oil cans
giving you this
funny car
dragster
fueled high
and it fits into the groove
of this night
you’ve lived
a hundred times before
night after night
loop after loop
repeating itself
till you graduated
and left home
and started your life
going to college
dropping out
scoring a job
at some factory
doing better
than your parents did
just another slave
to the grind
losing touch
and reconnecting
years later
when you smoked that cigarette
and stared off into space
and smelled those memories
burning back
to you
on the front porch
of your house
on some Saturday night
watching your kids
pile into a car
taking off with their friends
going to the races
like you did
back in high school
when dinosaurs
walked the Earth
and Wolfman Jack
still felt the rock and
not the roll
we got the Illinois grass revival
kicking out jams
full force
out back in
the pig lot
dirt and gravel
not paved
where the families
and employees park
serious tailgating
where smoke
hangs high in the air
over freaks and heads
looking to score goodies
or trying to get lucky
with some chick
who for a night
has no boyfriend
no commitments
and just wants to rock
and catch a quick high
and spend the night
with a bad boy
their parents would hate
decked out in jeans
and a Grand Funk t-shirt
with a Harley bandana
hiding long greasy hair
that’s your guy
you rebelled against
your parents with
when you were seventeen
breaking free
now a single mom
20 years later
wondering where the
time went
where your kid’s at
maybe she’s hiding out
somewhere
with your youth
and that goddamned haze
in the parking lot
looks like a cloud
that fell outta the sky
too heavy
too sleepy
too stoned
to float away with the others
air smells like burnt rope
not gasoline
like it did inside
when you were standing
down by the track
watching guys peeling out
looking cool for the girls
who might give ‘em
a place to crash
wife for a night
and some dude’s got
Starz
Boston
and Angel
blasting on his speakers
a moonchild madman
with a pot leaf decal
on his rear window
of his ’77 trans am
sayin’ “Legalize”
with his mind in outer space
orbiting stars
and planets
black cat took him to
drifting out
on some groovy
righteous trip
hawking weed and booze
out of the trunk of
his car
and for the moment
everything is just OK
in the world
you live in
it’s the look of the cars
and bright lights
on the track
against a black
and starless night
which draws you in
the sound coming from
the cars
like smokestack lightning
pushing these monsters
to their limit
praying transmission
doesn’t drop
or a tire doesn’t blow
taking curves like they don’t exist
and thinking about
last year’s
bicentennial jam
with Nugent
Foghat
and Jeff Beck
rocking out
with two thousand
of your closest friends
feeling the heat
of the track
set afire
and it’s just a typical night
at the Rockford Speedway
‘77
