I wrote this poem about--
I can't remember the guy's name--
the Pied Piper of Tucson, sort of based on him.
Remember those murders?
And it was titled "Oh, Cure, Who Do You Love?"
but I changed that to "The Hitchhiker"
the other day, which I think may be better.
I wrote it after I saw a performance with Mick Jagger
and you know this violence I wanted to capture.
The tension that I feel in heat.
In Arizona, in the heat.
In the southwest.
The Arizona wind dries out my nostrils
and the heat of the sidewalk burns my shoes.
A woman drives up slowly.
I get in, grinning at a face I do not like.
But I slide my arm across the top of the seat
and rested lightly against her shoulder
until we turn off into the desert.
I reach into inside my pocket and touch the switchblade.
And we stop.
And as she moves closer to me, my hands ache.
But somehow, I get the blade into her chest.
I think the song, "everybody needs somebody,
everybody needs somebody to love."
As the black numerals, 35 roll out
of her right eye inside, one small tear.
Laughing, I snapped my fingers.
Rape, murder.
I got you in the sight of my gun.
I move off toward the street my feet press down in it,
familiar with the hot, soft asphalt that caresses them.
The sun slips down into its cradle behind the mountains.
And it is hot.
Hotter than ever.
And I like it.
Can you hear?
OK.