A Heart So Hot

We don’t need much

to keep us strong

This light deep inside is

burning, burning.

The strength inside us

Churning, yearning

that we might find

a beam so bright

on the shine-fine fire of never denied

Never denied, we’re never denied.

We can’t keep going on and on

into darkness

Burning,  burning.

Days are begging us back

from some cool schooling fights

learning, learning

how to love.

We don’t need much

to leave dimness behind

this piercing light inside us

could almost make an owl blind.

Nothing means more

than what you made me find

in a hardened heart, so hot now

it’s burning,  burning.

We don’t need much

to keep us strong

this light deep inside

our hearts so hot

burning.

 

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You

You say you want to see other people

you mean to say people other than me

You say that you care

what you mean to say is you cared

You tell me you’re not ready

what you mean is you’re not ready for me

You assure me that it is you

why does it feel like it’s me?

You tell me it’s nothing I did

is there nothing I can do?

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My Dream Job (Another Memoir)

It’s not a trick.

There’s a key to hearing the sucking sounds of lost dreams escaping into a vacuum which probably looks even darker than this metaphoric night. They were there once. So was I.

Dreams of doing something important. Of living “happily ever after.” I had a dream about that girl I should have married. Then there was the dream . . .

Dreams are like layer cakes. Rich and soft and buttery, with smooth creamy layers of more richness and more unattainable crap. Big calories and the type of privacy you just don’t have in front of others, like when you eat two large pieces – sticky, sugary, wet icing all over your fingers before you lick them clean – and satisfyingly, you sit down and watch TV until you fall asleep Mexican style in the middle of the afternoon.

I’m screaming, through your deafness, I had dreams too. Hear me? Good. I had them early and late. In morning, night and afternoons of my childhood. There, like unwanted relatives, all through my youth. They were hidden in every lie I told about pseudo glory and how I had pseudo private thoughts about how the world would be a bit safer and better through the creation of my babbling words . . .

I had more dreams than you. And now I have less. I had more cars and less. More clothing and less. More pussy and less. I had more nights that were days and days you’d call nights and starlight and moonlight and . . .

Look over there: The lights of Miami feel very assuring when you’re offshore. The type of reassurance that one gets when hidden away from the world, but still able to stare – hard and firm like some phallic thing – into the west, away from this Bermuda Triangle to the skyline of Miami where dreams and dreamers live. And, you open a bottle of that good rum, not the cheap shit, and you look west to where they live and you thank God you’re not there counting the minutes until the alarm clock rings and the slave masters beckon.

It’s nice to be a whore and know it.

Stop. Did you just glance at the meaning of life like you were skimming a box score? Stop and read the sentence above – again and again and again. That’s my life. My mantra. People go to the fucking Himalayas to find the meaning of life and you did, because it just fell into your lap. But because the cost wasn’t dear, did you just keep on keeping on? Listen: It’s nice to be a whore and know it.

Please, say it with me: It’s nice to be a whore and know it.

It’s a whore’s world. Whores are the oldest professionals. The good ones, I mean the great ones, always made the most money, until lately. Lately, I mean a few years back when Daryl Strawberry got that contract from the Yankees, and when Enron starting paying the other type of Lays $600 million a year. Mind you, few of those are salary dollars. It‘s all bonus money! Just like a whore. The work is only $75, but the expected tip is $125. That’s a buck and a quarter. Get this, if you don’t pay the $75 you’re a gypsy and a robber. But if you don’t pay the expected $125, you’re no player. You’re punked. You’re the john, you’re the trick, you’re everything, Slick. It’s just a matter of what day it is; or better yet, at midnight when your dreams lurk you’re on the dark side of the Earth and all this new knowledge and one bagel will give you more carbs than you need consume in an entire day. Is it clear now?

You wanted my dreams? There was a time you would have wished to have had my dreams. Take them. Hold them, like I did, once. Soft and purring like a litter of tiny stripped kittens, sitting in a box, nursing the teat of mother’s warm milk. They smell good. Blue eyes, little whiskers, frail little rib cages. I owned them all. The ones I had and the ones I don’t admit to having anymore. My dreams. I had more than you. Now I have less.

Sure I’d like to have been David Bowie. But dreams aren’t gratis. You’d have to pay for that one with four hours a day in some dirty garage in some dirty city like Blackpool, or some such place. You’d have to have one eye on your dream, and the other eye blue. Your mother wouldn’t be allowed to know if you were a boy or a girl. Hot Tramp, as much as I love you, I think it’s a bit dear. Don’t you?

Maybe tame it down a bit. I could be Judy Garland and sing some gay show tunes.(I have to admit, I did always like the Wizard of Oz.) I could be Mother Teresa, her picture sits above my keyboard. I might have been Albert Einstein or that cotton-pickin’ “nigger” your granddaddy lynched or in latent days I might have been a size 28 pants.

The good thing about losing your dreams is finding your definitions. There. (Where?) Once again, you’re not staying with me. Above. See where it says “size 28 pants” there? That’s the definition between real life and waking up wishing you were Judy Garland. You don’t have to be asleep to know and dream the real dream of no belly even in a land of plenty like America where we layer our cakes and shake and bake. I’m talking fulfillment now. . .

I’m nearing confession. You don’t have to admit to wanting to see car wrecks or hating to see them. It’s my wreck, you’re just a witness.

I cried. Real hard. When they left. One by one. One tear. One love. One dream. Not just my dreams – but the courage it takes to realize them. Not just my soul, but the holes and the whole of what composes it. Not just my beliefs, but what made my beliefs, once, worth believing. Not my scars or my wrinkles or anything that you and I have in common, it’s about what exists in the solitude of some quiet mind content to be just what it is, and the owner of this grand scheme of what it might have been or still may become.

And I guess I knew I never was much good at anything – but that was my secret. If you came this far, you can come a few words closer. Close to me, but far enough away where we both can breath. . . . that’s the beauty of this dream. I can have my space and get into yours at the same moment. It’s why this worthlessness seems worthwhile, if only for the fleeting moments when I have you captured. It’s just at that moment, here, we are whore and trick. Insidiously – if not in some shallow way – playing with each other’s minds.

OK, I’ll play the trick, this time, and pay you now. I’ll tell you what you want to know. I’ll jump through your hoop; I’ll climb your treadmill; amuse you. Look closely at me, and you’ll discover how much better you turned out. That’s the real beauty of others, isn’t it? The comparison and what you’re left with in the end: the choice to pray for me or be like me.

If I had been any good, really, I would have become something or anything. Instead, I dreamed of becoming a writer. And that’s all I could do is sit in a chair and stare at that screen, and today, talk about some silly thoughts about dreams and dreamers and dream jobs.

Forgive me. Forgive the yin and the yang. The powers that be and the power to be. The flight and the fight and the poverty of pride.

But remember: I had more dreams than you. And now I have less.

And, I wasn’t any good at this either.

But . . .

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Talk About You

Talk about you

I talk about you

I’m in a trance

Feelin’ romance

Talk about you

I talk about you – all night long

All night long

All night long

I’m in dream

With your soft hair

Blowin’ on me

It’s blowing on me

Silhouette of your body

you on a knee

Am I in a dream?

Talk about you

Yeah, I talk about you

What else do I need

That you won’t please

Feelin’ romance

When I talk about you

All night long

All night long

Hold you all night long

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Steady Girl

If I’m not wrong

I’m feeling quite steady in an unsteady world

I’m feeling kinda ready for a perfect swirl

I wanna get a new steady girl

 

A steady girl don’t mind

if disaster’s abound

all around this world like a hula-hoop

spinnin’ me down

It’s kinda more than good

with a steady girl around

 

Well don’t I know

She’ll make you feel steady in an unsteady world

You’ll be so ready to ride a misty curl

If you go surfin’ for a new steady girl

Go out and get a new steady girl

 

 

It’s gonna feel tight

it’s always all right

yet kinda hard to describe

you come up breathin’

like you’re married to life

There’s nothing like a new steady girl

Nothing like the look of your girl

 

 

Some say it’s not worth it

’cause there’s struggle and strife

Some stay alone all their life

too long without love can’t be right

when she’s steadier than day is to night

 

A steady girl

I gotta go out for a steady girl

with nights on fire

She warm this cold, cold world

I’m lookin’ for new steady

lookin’ for a new steady

Just a new steady girl

 

 

 

A steady girl

I gotta steady girl

You know my nights on fire

She warms my cold, cold world

She’s just a steady

She’s just a steady

Just a steady, steady girl

 

And, if I’m not wrong

I’m feeling quite steady in an unsteady world

I’m feeling kinda ready for a perfect swirl

I wanna get a new steady girl

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The Eagles Concert Tour (2010)

Tight, together, having fun, the Eagles are delivering a powerful cache of music that won’t soon be forgotten. Sell-outs are marking every city, many paying a $1,000 a seat to sit in front section. Some front-row-centers are selling for up to $2,500. We were guests and caught from the 14th row.

Generally their shows begin on time with no opening acts. This show lasted three and half hours. This show ended with Take It Easy, just before Don Henley stepping to the edge of the stage to close it down with the sad-ballad warning, Desperado.

I never go to an Eagles’ show. Now I wonder why. I met these boys when I lived down off Santa Monica Boulevard in Beverly Hills. Back then they were Linda’s band prior to her Stone Pony‘s hit, Different Drum. They jammed about twice a week at the Troubadour. Henley and Frey went on a two-month tour with Linda and then they quit to form the Eagles.

I really pumped up my friends to get them to join me saying, “this should be a great night.” But honestly, I had no interest in their music whatsoever. I have a trove of their albums – a couple autographed. Yet I haven’t yanked them out in decades. My favorite is Desperado.

This show was the ultimate shit. You wanna rock? Can you handle rock and roll? Then welcome home The James Gang as Joe Walsh stole the show from Henley and Frey, and they let him.

Walsh jammed with myriad guitars from 1950s Fenders to custom-made jobs, changing boards as often as most change ass-position on folding seats. It was one punch after the next. Tempo changes dropped to ballads then accelerated to “arena rock,” with stops in between using false endings; 4/4 allegro alternatives, intermingled with 3/4 and fading keyboards, and quietly soft drum accompaniment from Henley.

I believe Walsh, 62, is the greatest board picker in the USA. He’s alone when compared to guys like Clapton or other legends – and I doubt too many younger guys could keep up. He did everything, including Rocky Mountain Way, which he often does not do. Walsh had a helmet cam on and goofed with the enthused audience, putting them on-camera airing on a giant screen at the rear of the stage. Life’s Been Good became a pictorial of Walsh and the Eagles life – as the screen showed old photos of the band for almost 10 minutes.

When Walsh sang, “they write me letters and tell me I’m great,” Glen Frey was rolling his eyes. That’s still making me smile.

Walsh did Walk Away and Guilty of the Crime, as if in confession. His guitar work on Heartache Tonight, Life In The Fast Lane, and Dirty Laundry were beyond description.

The set was complete:

Take It Easy
Witchy Woman
Peaceful Easy Feeling
Desperado
Tequila Sunrise
Already Gone
The Best of My Love
I Don’t Want To Hear It
Love Will Keep Us Alive
Lyin’ Eyes
One of These Nights
Take It to the Limit
Hotel California
Guilty of the Crime
Walk Away
Life in the Fast Lane
Victim of Love
Boys of Summer
Dirty Laundry
The Last Resort
New Kid in Town
Heartache Tonight
The Sad Café
I Can’t Tell You Why
The Long Run
In the City
Hole in the World

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Like The Prophet – Like Gibran

Longer days bake in sunshine,

cloud-covered light, misty rain.

Turn a blind eye to silver linings,

like a hobo possessed by pain.

 

Does it matter?  (In the end?)

If we bother climbing mountains once again?

We could rest in the shady valley of self-offend?

Will it matter – in the end?

 

Glance closely into my eyes,

revealing the shadows in yours.

We mistaken plan-makers in downtown Boredom,

neither seeking nor reaping rewards.

 

There’s that education

There’s that re-creation

Bifurcation, delineation

a canvas for creation

– Then it’s done.

 

Sun sets again

on right or wrong

in timeless tides of wallow, here and gone,

Like The Prophet.

Like Gibran.

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Magic

Put some faith in me

you know my love

put your hand in mine

you’ll know how much I love you

 

You were just someone

who saved me from my crying

Comment allez vous

I know it’s perfectly fine

Comment je suis

I told you yesterday

 

Put your hand in mine

you know my love

put some faith in me

know the ways I love you

 

Qu’est ce que tu veux savoir

that my love for you is magic?

   Je te le dirai encore une autre fois

you’ll know about magic!

 

Put your love in mind 

  true love owns its own time

put some faith in me

you’ll feel we are magique

you’ll know this is magic.

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Three Again

I felt the firm moist sand beneath my feet
as the ocean water came in orgasmic pulses to greet me
facing the warmth of my pacific sun
I closed my eyes and I was three years old.

One moment is my universe
dark and fading
alone as it seems now it has always been
reaping the fields I plow.
In silence we suffer
in quiet sounds of pain
I would be three again
more powerful alliances I had then.

Three,
three, again
I’d cry and they’d run
caring to curtail
the wetness of my innocent universe.

When tomorrow comes I’ll play in fields
reaping future crops.
My secret as I’m halfway home
is desire to be three again.
To be again
to feel firm moist sand beneath my feet
and the ocean water coming to me
facing my warm pacific sun
my eyes closed . . .

I am three.
“Weeeeee!!!” again!
Free again.
Free again.
Free again.

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Paradigm Shift

Paradigm shift

 and quick now

like a wink from an escape artist

the kind

with dyed black hair and dark eye shadow

so deep her eyes fade then invade into heart.

 

I need a change

like that forever tearful night in Georgetown

lifetimes ago

when I wrote on the back of that napkin

 a poem

the kind

where lonely as I am tonight

I depended on your love – on you.

 

Perhaps

is one word I rarely use

as night is the color

of alone and black

is a hue of not-perhaps

the kind

defined and definite sans new opportunity

fends away fear

offering a last chance.

 

I am and was

the kind

who became one-tenth the man I could have become

which is more than less

but this is not over yet.

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