Imagine the following scenario:
There you are, bored as hell on your tour bus, miles
away from anywhere you’d like to be, and
you clap your hands (or whistle – whatever. It’s
your imagination; use it as you will.)
Anyway, you’d clap your hands and say, “Writer!
get over here and write me something right now.
What the fuck am I paying you for? To sit
there gazing out the window in the lounge? Stop
being lazy and write me a damned sonnet
about the damned gig we played last night in … uh.
Where were we? Tupelo? Write me a poem
about Tupelo, asshole. Entertain me.”
Give me 15 minutes, I’d say, then I’d come…