“I think most writers, 
even the best, overwrite.
I  prefer to underwrite.”
—Truman Capote,
Music for Chameleons

The same dumpy motel room
on the outskirts of Garden City

How many cold spectral nights
in that forlorn Kansas goth town

Drinking a bottle of Scotch
just to get thru another night

There’s no way to describe it
a strange shabby cheap cell

High plains as much a prison
as Perry Smith there in his cell

The landscape with its own captives
There’s no escape from it all

Stark panorama of wheat fields
tall lonely white silos by the tracks

My mind meandering incessantly
looking for some kind of relief

Yet isn’t this what I wanted
to become a Killer in the know?

To know what it was like to be
Perry Smith stuck way out there

Knowing every captive detail
just waiting to hang him dead

Every month, every night
every day the same old thing

Brooks the director capturing it
the same way I did back then

Making something cold-blooded

come alive again & be HOT

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