This last book, Mystery Train, has a sequence
of 35 poems that are all-- they're
more or less sonnets about rock and roll,
and rock and roll lore and inanity.
So I'll just-- I'm not going to read all 35 of them.
Don't worry.
I'll read a couple more, though.
This one's called "It's Only Rock and Roll
But I Like It, The Fall of Saigon, 1975."
"The guttural stammer of the chopper blades
raising arabesques of dust, tearing
leaves from the orange trees lining the Embassy compound.
One chopper left, and a CBS cameraman
leans from inside its door, exploiting the artful mayhem.
Somewhere, a radio blares the Stones, I like it,
like it, yes, indeed.
Carts full of files blaze in the yard.
Flak-jacketed marines gunpoint the crowd away.
The overloaded chopper strains and blunders from the roof.
An ice-cream-suited Saigonese drops his briefcase.
Both hands now cling to the airborne skis.
The camera gets it all--
the marine leaning out the copter bay,
his fists beating time, then the hands giving way."