On August 15, 2002, while vacationing on Cape Cod, Joe Scro (a.k.a. The Heathen a.k.a. Monsieur Buoyant a.k.a. Woolly Mammoth a.k.a. General Beauregard DeBlu a.k.a. The Freakishly Strong One a.k.a. Joe The Sicilian a.k.a. Scromagnum Man a.k.a. Smells Like Buffalo) stumbled upon an original Lamont Bridges poem that had been hastily scrawled on a wrinkled brown paper bag. It had been stashed under a bed in the summerhouse Scro had co-rented. What are we to make of this startling discovery? The allusions contained in the poem are diverse. They should provide new clues to Lamont's influences and tastes. As for the structure of the poem, one might sense that it was penned as a song lyric. No evidence of any musical notation was found. (We've transcribed the words below the copy of the original to aid readers who are unable to decipher Lamont's funky penmanship.)
Marsh Hawk Trace
Dream sequences with a puppet, butcher-knifed inside a trunk,
Therapy from mook to mutts, soundtracked by Thelonious Monk,
And DVD's spin to infinite, past the plague of bad T.V.,
Was that Joey Zaza and Mr. Pink waving missiles at Kennedy?
And you can't even show your face
Back on Marsh Hawk Trace.
And you know it ain't no disgrace
Hanging out on Marsh Hawk Trace.
Hot tub chugs and rumbles, brewing a human stew,
Sweating out three dopios, going out on a diamonded two,
And you know that just one more white wine sends you to the outdoor shower,
Too much sand has clogged your brain when from the faucet flows clam chowder.
So let's cut to the chase
Down near Marsh Hawk Trace.
And you know you're way off base
If you stray from Marsh Hawk Trace.
With a New York Cadillac attitude, you double-park on dunes,
There's a star for every mosquito bite, a guitar tuned to a crescent moon.
While white whales bike down rail trails in the bloody-eyed sunset,
For Lamont you look in old used books, as Walt Whitman bad-mouths the Mets.
Feels just like you fell from grace
All along Marsh Hawk Trace.
And nothing's ever out of place
Way down on Marsh Hawk Trace.