Mile High (track #6)

Album   Marker and Parker
Artist   Marc Zegans
Written by   Marc Zegans
Length   4:11
Mood Rockin', Hip, Happy
Theme Night in an Oakland Blues Club


The question topmost in my mind each time I went to Eli's 
Mile High Club at 25th on the Milkyway (in Oakland California), 
was would I be fed?
Or would I be food?   

The pork loin white pit-bull who guarded the dark
side of house lot next to Eli's, tensed against his leather 
tether, teeth catching moon-light and reflecting it, intensified,
past my specs, lens, pupil, and pulsing iris, onto my retina,
which told my optic nerve to inform my amigdala,
via dense, blood gorged, brain tissue (organ meat)
that measured flight was not a bad option.

On any particular day, but this was not, 
I'd walk past the small bar, having handed
my bills to a doorman, cum bouncer, half again
as wide as the entry he was guarding, and perhaps
chance to see Eli's ghost, who liked to hang around
sometimes on a Friday night.  Just cause he got shot 
there, didn't mean he'd lost affection for the place.

From a gustatory perspective, the murder was a loss.
The liquor control board, in its linear fashion, decided
that hard liquor and execution didn't mix, at least when
it came to the proprietor's heirs. Oakland's finest blues club
was beer and wine only, and the wine should have come in a can.

The question utmost in my mind, as I plunked myself at a table
just off the dance floor, stage left, was hot links or barbeque 
grilled on a split oil drum out back.   I was there to see Lowell
Fulson, who still wore a suit, no matter where he played,
to meet my friends, and to dance eight beats to the bar,
but at the moment, I was hungry.

After deliberating intently on the pros and cons of picking
beef shreds out of my teeth all night,versus eating ground
whatever stuffed into an intestinal sack, origins covered 
in cayenne and dried chilis,  I opted for the links.   

They came to my table with collards and rice,
swimming in sauce, which I mopped up with a soggy
single, slice of wonder bread.  I asked the waitress
for another, slice that is, to which I got, "Are you fuckin'
 crazy?"   I smiled at her, and she brought one,
then another, and another, and another, "eye flirtin",
till the plate was clean, save for a half slice of white.

She returned, draft in one hand, slice in the other,
put down the beer, looked at my plate, the bread
in her hand and laughed, big, deep and open.

"Think I need some more sauce," said I, rising 
from the table, putting my hand to her waist,
We weren't eye flirting now.  

I took her free hand, twirled her once, let my fingers
slide from palm to tips and walked into the Oakland night,
friends forgotten, Mile High.