Editor’s note: Plain everyday observation and recording of yesterday’s long ago road roam came in dribs and drabs in the author’s journal over many years. Most was a kind of reporting, actually a remembering of the ‘seeing,’ ‘hearing’ and ‘feeling’ from that one night. It was carefully transcribed on found scraps of paper whenever the images, sounds and feelings reappeared and was then typed, more or less as it was seen, heard and felt.

I remember that night well in that cheesy motel
TV on low, we were dog tired and beat
They were selling death, crack cocaine, crystal meth
From the white Lincoln idling out by the street

There was no rhyme, no reason, and they weren’t in New York.
Junkies running from themselves, money and the flesh
Mistaking powder for love, these seekers with no song
And it still is for those of them left

Oh, most don’t get away, most die in a lousy way
Just throwing it all away to the ground
They can’t get away, it’s hell when they can’t pay
For making themselves numb, humming lil sweet songs

I remember that night well in that cheesy motel
We were headed to Eff-Ell-A
We watched with TV on low
Junkies fixing over suicide doors

There was no rhyme, no reason, and they weren’t in New York.
Junkies running from themselves, money and the flesh
Mistaking powder for love, these seekers with no song
And it still is for those of them left

I remember that night well at that cheesy motel
It was the summer of oh seven
The riders that night, trying to steer clear
And me, I was just trying to stay even

The riders left the next day
Closed their eyes, turned their back on the pain
They were still riding along on wild dreams
Racing the midnight trains as far they could see

Those they left behind had no dreams
Just nightly motel scoring schemes
Outside the rooms, desert wind ruefully rustles
Inside inward looking eyes growing darker in deep corners

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