All the dead rock stars have been buried in weird,
glittering ceremonies and are living under the
Witness Protection Program in the badlands of
America.

By now, they are almost outlaws, getting old and
bitter, and the ache in their bones when they
remember yesterday is making them crazy for the
rhythms that still twitch in their fingers, and
their throats are horny to shout the songs again,
with all the tension and heat of being cool.

He worked out hard so he wouldn't get fat any more,
but anyway the plastic surgery had killed the old
identity and the secret agent in the blue suit and
red tie had hollered, "No gigs! No gigs!" over his
departing shoulder... so now there is nothing left
but electronic dreams and the perfumed heat and
silken curves writhing on the water-bed, even if
there would always be plenty of money until they
decide to turn him off.

Sometime in the middle of the night, he began to
wander in the big country, where the deep space
sky knows all about you but can't possibly care,
and sheer movement might increase your chances in
the long run... and a white horse appeared on the
low moon horizon with sad eyes and everything and
he sat in the saddle and they galloped headlong
through the decaying purple darkness until a blue,
opalescent dawn revealed a town where tumbleweed
was rolling along Main Street and an empty chair
in front of the saloon was rocking.

Walking through the drfting dust and swinging doors
toward the smell of coffee, he noticed that Hendrix
was a two-gun man. They were all there - they had
been waiting for him.

02/16/2008