Jim Morrison, Lizard King
by Martin A. Ramos

St. Louis Arena, November 9, 1968

I'm ten rows back, walk down the aisle.
What force is pulling me toward Jimmy?
He sits, slump-shouldered, sad, now looking dead:
I am like a camera just three feet from his head.

Perspiration, like holy water, drips from his hair.
I am beside myself. White-shirted god, I stare
Into the face of this bewildered man I've never met.
Black leather pants shine from his dripping sweat.

His gaze meets mine; I am undone.
Who said eternity (or rock and roll) was so much fun?
Soft are his eyes and pure, much like a boy's.
I hear him speak strange words of blaring noise.

The transformation--when it comes--will send me reeling.
I freeze, Jim is the Lizard King.
Lost in a wall of sound, shun time and place, avert my eyes.
He closes his, forever shuts both doors.

Copyright 2023 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.