Egg

Our drummer wanted to get high as the afterllife

most nights, but he pounded out our single heart

with his sticks and skins.

And when i kicked off the red lights

on the first chord of "Panic Town,"

we're lit like hell's house band...

turn every good woman bad.

I’d drive home alone,

but it's like we cored out the night

and we each got a tunnel

of life same as we imagined it.

Then, I’d sit on the couch and wait

for all my molecules to reassemble,

calm down and drink myself to sleep.

All of this, because once I

heard a singer that could shout us

into the neighboring universe,

the place where all our joy

expands us 80 times or more

until you can pull a smile into a field

and happiness finally bursts out and up

as our long wintering primal crop.

Only one out of 180 billion, maybe,

can get through

and ferilize this world

toward its birth.

Yet we all live each day eyes on the egg.
And I play Etta James any night
that seems too small.