The Silver Dollar Coup of 1979


When the collective bedroom of America

Draws its goodnight shade

And the carbon bed lamp of the world

Knows another day is played


When the stars that no one understands

Become a silver dollar haze

And the over-active moon slides across

The place where no crime pays


When the waist-material highway

Sneaks past the man-made door

And the smoking vehicles of mystery

Depart for the Earth’s peace corps


When mules and jewels and lesser tools

Are, or are snapped in, leather cases

And the co-op of a Mexican farm

Is cloaked in Spanish laces


When the burnt Arizona desert

Meets the white peaks to the north

And the air that slept in Canada

Sluggishly gushes forth


When the grinding hum just whistles by

And fades from louds to blacks

And the bankers in the hall of fame

Are looking smooth in grey flannel sacks


When the foundries and the factories

Gather the shift’s fresh numbers

And a stalwart unsung villain

Reacts to illegal wonders


When every man who ever lived

Knows his future well

And tells his son that he’s the one

Who has the world to tell


When East meets West in tribal revolt

And the Hudson again flows clean

And the jockey of the rotund hour

Parks his black and silver machine


When Kerouac no longer meets up with

The bosses of the road

And those who prefer wings over asphalt

Turn in their much-too-heavy load


When every insect of the night

Can bathe in private dew

There’ll be no more concept of wrong and middle and right

And no rumor of a coup


Think back, for a moment, to Seventy-nine

When there were more important things to do

Remember when everybody lived on the line

Until the summer of Eighty-two?


Don’t dilute the vivid memory

Let it sparkle like it did in Eighty-two

Like the time when there were real prices

To pay for a part in a coup


When the collective bedroom of America

Draws its goodnight shade

We will all be just so many

Conspirators on parade 

Fredy Argir

Austin, Texas

 For more information about the Blackhawk Manuscript, go here.

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Secret Lives of Musicians

Secret Lives is the only novel I've published using a pen name. (My middle name is Emmett and my mother's middle name was Orlaine. Hence, Emmett Orlaine.)  But this is not a book about music. It's a collection of stories about musicians from different eras who find themselves in international, desperate, and often life-threatening situations and how they improvise and think on their feet to survive. It's a cultural time capsule, it's funny, and it's available for all eBook formats anywhere in the world—and only $4.99.

For more about Secret Lives, check out the BOOKS section.