SPIRIT IN THE SKY by NORMAN GREENBAUM. Poem by Craig Kirchner.

 

East Baltimore, 1970

 

You know it’s a must

 Billy McC. ate glass,

rolled out of moving cars and short trees,

wanted to be a stuntman,

had a plate in his head.

 

We’re sitting in a strange bar in

East Baltimore, talking about

the old days, like last summer,

listening to Norman Greenbaum.

 

‘Goin up to the spirit in the sky’

 

The local morning drunks take a

dislike to something about us,

whiskey and beer mixed so early with

testosterone, and we’re not locals.

 

It gets to the mother bashing stage,

and I start to fantasize pain in

geometric shapes, two guys

in the morning mist pacing with pistols.

 

‘When I die, and they lay me to rest’

 

Bill in his best Clint Eastwood way

grabs a bar stool, takes a bite,

out of its black leather backing,

the perfect touch to calm the situation.

 

I felt bad for the stool, light a cigarette,

the big palm thing in the corner

goes back to growing,

the bartender takes his first of the day.

 

‘Gotta have a friend in Jesus’

 

Leaving, stumbling, Bill points out,

completely out of context,

that the rain falls on the living and the dead,

and I wonder if he was listening to the lyrics.

 

Driving off the lot he mentions the time I

talked him down with the knife in his hand.

I tell him we’re even, and nonchalantly,

inquire how he digests this stuff he eats for affect.

 

‘Go to the place that’s the best.’

 

Stereo Story #799