talking louder than you & you never have his attention, it’s a no-reply zone & its hopeless, you can tell by the tics of his face, the turns of his head to watch anything but you, you’re not equals and there will be no conversation. Laws don’t apply & why should they I wanted to be your friend back when you presented the humble persona, lips composed in a tight smile, the one yr women like, you figure—egotism works for a living & sings for its supper but now theres no control—yr always helpless in the face of yr next whim—yr like a coach delivering a pep talk all day—you speak to people as if they’re an adoring crowd—belief in nothing is possible under special circumstances—the jungle powers effect—big beasts only need apply—scrutiny dampens desire—but its all about the performance—in bed devolving into a service job for someone—constant lies are necessary now—its all about the attenuated attention span—the inability to listen to another to read the situation—its the end of the day so you do the little things you like to do—but sleep won’t come yr mind is racing from a sleight—brush yr teeth polish yr nails—or better yet—have one of your professionals do it—there’s no replacement for quality.
* quote is from Bob Dylan’s World Gone Wrong liner notes.
I wish I was somewhere far away on the side of a mountain—sleeping on the floor with a couple of blankets & a bowl of rice—distance—the kiss of the new encounter—aroma of a different egg & leg—so tired of getting’ up & goin’ to school everyday—’til the juice is sucked out of every orange leaving only freeze dried tomatoes—the stranger with a brand new three minute relationship—up all night & wandering to break the spell again—they wanted him in office to throw a wrench in the system—the dog’s been asleep on the floor for hours—but shying away from the broken plans, shattered marriages, the violence of domestic change—out the front door in the mist of early dawn & down the street in the sunlight “bound & determined” ha ha—throw over the sure things, the subscribed, the drills, the calisthenics of boredom, whats the point of living forever in a grind—my back is sore from a chair, my hands ache, the cuppa tea, the same old boring pajama game, throw it over, break out, like never before, “I’ll try something new” sang Smokey, tears are a good sign, shivers another, blood red inspiration, the image that won’t quit, the obsession you live with ’til its in tatters, talk about something new.
patient & strong grey bristle-haired & cute, stubborn according to legend, silent in speech except for their call, the horn-like voice, four feet on the ground, straw bound and watching always watching—swishing flies with their broom-like tails—the soft snoot the adjustable & attenuated pointed twitching ears, the huge forward teeth in rows chewing corn, hay, carrots—the silky muzzle—the forbearance of the animal—here in all being but a passenger amongst humans—no they’ve been passengered but carry men women & children on their backs—the odors of dirt & manure—hay & the dry breeze—in their little barn over the hill & dale of Caulkins’ farm—which was really just a place, a home, with donkeys—four of them that we’d visit—Jesus arrives in Jerusalem, the Kings enters on a donkey’s back, greeted by seismic crowds, waving palm fronds—was the little animal frightened? Did jesus ride side-saddle? Was the donkey rewarded in Heaven or on Earth? The wild burros of Hawaii, on the big island, wandering the black volcanic ash & fields by the blue ocean—life of a donkey equals low man on the totem pole—the respect and trust of Balthazar—traded & whipped from town to town—credited as living brick but a donkey can feel, is sensitive, crys big tears, freedom tastes sweet, Platero—if they want they will but if they dig in forget it—are you like that donkey?
After a long day worn out with the guys, rehearsing, yelling, working angles on each other and watching them develop, ducking figurative (and sometimes literal) punches, conforming and rebelling in equally stressed measure to the group think, my head doesn’t ache but my scalp is tight, my face hurts, I’m ready to go back to the second floor motel room I call home—a block and a half from the Capital Records tower—I go in and turn on the black & white—white plastic magnavox TV with the green tube & wobbly knobs—the tube flickers up to life growing from a dot, and reveals, Abbott & Costello fighting the mob, black & white & shades of grey, the actors beat looking adults, they’ll always seem older than me, slicked back hair and pugnacious expressions with vaudeville timing, my mother told me once she’d seen them go by in Buffalo, a sighting she took seriously, wonder—stars—but—the safety, the comfort, of the late night movies—the plot creeps between used car ads—“come see Cal and his dog Spot!”—and Spot was a lion—a dream link—daydreams at night—relief—a dark room flickered and ghosted by Boston Blackie, the Mob, Detectives, Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Natalie Wood, feet up, life suspended, the ache peels off like onion skin.
Baby