Jim Morrison is alive and well

I found him in some juke joint cantina
Down in the deserts of southern America

He was sitting in a dimly lit
Booth in the corner of the room
Digging on some blues band blowing blues
And nursing a bottle of whiskey like a pro
Slowly channeling the shaman within his soul

As I approached in dumbstruck awe
He waved me to take a seat on the bench
Adjacent to where he himself sat

We ate from a plate of enchiladas and ten-cent tacos
And spoke of the poetry of Rimbaud and Baudelaire

He dreamed a dream where he and Kerouac
Took a trip from France to San Francisco
And read volumes of poetry books
From famous beat authors
And reminisced about their pasts as famous men

We continued to allow the whiskey
To slither like serpents down our throats
As ancient poems sauntered back up
Like lyrical word *****

I told him of a dream where he and I
Ate off a plate of enchiladas and ten-cent tacos
In some southern American juke joint cantina
Listening to joyously lamented blues
And discussing the great poets of the past

We laughed and had a great time
As the Doors of our perception
Bled poetic verses of imagination

When the night was over
And the dawn began to arrive
We parted ways with many thanks
And a hugging hand-shake

He went his way
Off into the the waiting sun
A Lizard King in celebration

And I went mine
Off into the depths of shadow
Taking a late moonlight drive