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| Bobs Plugged Too Cool To Care Me and Quincy were going out Puttin' across the Bay Bridge Grinning like a pair of Cheshire cats We'd found a six pack in the fridge Q's drumming on the dashboard keeping the beat I can't figure out how to turn on the heat Rain pours in through a missing window Wind drifts in through a drafty door My cars so old I can see the road When I look down -- right through the floor My labrador's like an open umbrella Stretched out and panting in the back We wanna be beatniks on Valencia He's like Neal -- I'm like Jack I wish that I'd ridden with Kerouac So in the tunnel we fade to black Too cool, too cool, to care We're on a pilgrimage to a cooler day To worship at the shrine Where fog rolls in and mixes gray With rolling bass horns warning ships And filling all the Frisco nights With dreams of other City Lights Going to a coffee house in North Beach On a misty night with wet streets shining I see taxi brakes reflected in the gutter... I hear my solos flowing like streams of butter I'll be painting pictures with half valve notes Notes that melt like Dali watches Notes that rain down in molten pools Not a hip hop groove, no Kenny G It's a smoky reedy breathy sound Like Ferlinghetti or Ezra Pound Too cool, too cool, to care My face is a mask of free association I'm wearing heavy black rim glasses I've got a butt that dangles from my curling lip And a callous from too much snapping I got lizard eyes behind sun glasses I'm sneaking up on hip in crepe soled shoes Or sunning on a rocking Be bop blues Aloof and stoic but never weird... Q's got a little pointed beard A half grown goatee like a clear cut forest Sideburns and a Gap pocket T Pocketee, pocketee Cause we belong to those who don't belong Rebels in shark skin suits With an attitude and perfect hair Yeah that's us -- too cool to care Too cool, too cool, to care Like a subterranean Doctor Sax A jazzbo dharma Zen Monk riddle I'm blowing choruses to a climax In a basement room that smells of mold I'm blowing double time bridges like some hyper Trane Copping a taste for a strung out lover Whining and romantic like Morrissey I'll suffer like a fool Like some freeloader Freddie who makes an impression Like some Washington Irving at the shooting gallery Like some wild eyed child of Walt Whitman Rimbaud the poet meets Rambo the killer An uptight daddy, a big Kahuna Charlie Parker meets Charlie Tuna It's an orgy... Of simile and metaphor In the rapids of a stream of consciousness I'm paddlin' in the kayak of punctuation... And all I can say is like... Too cool, too cool, to care |
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