Peter Case

Notebook

Can’t Stop Shakin’ & I Don’t Know Why

conspiracies–I never thought about them on the grey November—in the backyard with a football—“the president’s been shot”—it never occurred until Rolling Stone started blowing on their trumpet—or maybe news of Garrison—as time passed I began to feel the enormity of the wounds of those killings—then, late nights alone, reading the lore—a quickening of all the senses—life—ah yes—and it made as much sense as the tale of a lone gunman—sympathy & identification with Oswald—not as a killer but as a young lost soul—then feeling the truth was being revealed—as waves of contradiction pursued across the airwaves—lines of print arranged to re-confuse? And explanations for the explanations: the theories soothe, help us deal with the mysterious uncontrollable forces—but the truth mattered & I know a little about that—the sense of truth seems to get stronger as I get older tho’ that may be an illusion—see? you will always struggle with these tales—making sense of evil is a tricky business—and now absurd theories of Clinton sex cults & murders—explain what?—Obama birth in Kenya explains…the theorist’s anxieties—away—a glimpse behind the veil—the curtain that dropped a long time ago—Jon said “watch who keeps winning no matter what.”

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At The Restaurant

someone keeps an eye on me
someone I’ve never met
I’ve got their dishes in my kitchen
their picture on my tv set

he worked downstairs in the diner
sixteen hour shifts or more
cooking & waiting tables
& when they closed mopping the floor

he came here with his family
they left a world behind
this new land was a mirror
but the sky was redesigned

he never raised his voice at all
at work or in the home
said “what you do comes back to you
good luck is yours on loan”

he wore a grey fedora
tipped back on his head
always fresh & white clothes to work
silk pajamas when its time for bed

his brother Al had problems
started using crack cocaine
went to jail in Columbia
never was the same again

see his grandkids on the dresser
his lottery tickets too
you know if he ever hits it
he’ll be splitting the prize with you

he always kept a postcard painting
of a pretty little town in greece
someday he’ll go back home
Jason with the golden fleece

he came here with his parents
they left their world behind
the new world is a mirror
the skys a rollercoaster ride

he watched his big time wrestling
loved his Jackie Gleason too
play’n’ on the floor with grandkids
was his favorite thing to do

a bad man seeks out trouble
everywhere he looks
the good man finds some goodness
even in a world of crooks

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