Richie And The Dark Days

It's times like these, the dark days, that I think about Richie. He's gone now, and I still miss him. But I remember the dark days way back when, and how he always gave us comfort.

Especially today, April 4th. Fifty-two years ago today they blew away Dr. King. It was the second day in my life for which I remember every second. The first had happened five years earlier, when President Kennedy bought it in Dallas. He was the only president I ever met and shook hands with, in Battery Park a few months before he died. He came there to dedicate the Navy monument to the sailors who died in World War II. He pulled up on the Esplanade in the same open-top limousine in which he would later die in Dallas, got out with just one Secret Service man and waded into the crowd shaking hands.

I was fourteen years old. I'd never shaken a president's hand, before or since.

But five years later, April 4, 1968. I was at a hockey playoff game in Madison Square Garden watching the Rangers trying for the Stanley Cup. The game ended, I don't remember who won, and we walked out into Penn Plaza and saw the vendors waving newspapers with Dr. King's photo on the front page, and the headline in Second Coming type (if you know newspapers you know that's the biggest font they have, reserved for when Jesus returns.)KING DEAD!

Richie (Havens) showed up at my college a few days later. He was friends with the woman who ran our student center. He hugged us all and said, "It's gonna be alright. We're gonna be alright."

God, we so needed to hear that.

I think of all the times since when he did that for us.

Like a few months later, when Bobbie Kennedy was killed in Los Angeles.

Like the Vietnam War.

Like Desert Storm.

Like September 11th....

The last time I saw Richie alive was at Highline Ballroom. His brother came to the show and sat with Jane and me. It was a great night.

The next time I saw him was at his wake, at City Winery. All us old hippies drank too much and sang all his songs.

Peace to you, Richie. Peace to you John, and Martin, and Bobbie

I hope someone lives long enough to wish peace to us.

You Don't Deserve Any Better

You wished I would never mention your name, didn't you?

Well I didn't, and I won't.

That's for us to know.

But damn, I miss you.

You know what came between us. I wanna watch you, 'til I see a tear in your eye. 'Til then, I won't believe a word about you. After....?

Rain Song

Spring wind blowing, Spring rain falling, couple weeks early,but not too far behind. Gods look the other way, you don't really care, what matters is what happens,what happens is what matters.

Spring wind blowing, turn your collar up, tighten your scarf, that's what I would do. Spring rain falling, your kisses warm 'round my neck, you knitted it just for me, didn't you?

Or did I forget your name? Did I care where your shovel hit me? Break my ribs, don't matter. I'll be dead, then it's your problem.

So many circles round you. So many sandbars, between here and home. So many times....

Night Wind

There was a birthday this week. Not mine, that's on almost the other side of the year. It was the birthday of the first girl I was in love with.

Yeah, we all say that. But I mean truly, madly, desperately, achingly, ecstatically in love. The kind of love where you wake up in the morning and you don't want to open your eyes, 'cos in the dreamworld she left her picture there, behind your eyelids.

The kind of love where you dreaded the start of school in the fall 'cos you couldn't spend every sunny day together from morning til night.

The kind of love where you would trade the whole day for five minutes together.

Her name was Jill, and she lived on the edge of Brownsville in the late sixties, not exactly a safe place. Those were high-strung times.

I remember the night I met her. I went to a party at a friend's house in early winter, and I walked into the bedroom to toss my coat on the bed. This girl was sitting there, brunette, tall, hair in a ponytail, blue eyes wide. I looked at her and said, "Hey, what did you smoke tonight?" She looked at me and said, earnestly, "An entire Marlboro!"

Thought to myself, I HAVE to know this girl!

Couple weeks later, I took her to the Fillmore, to see Iron Butterfly, backed by an unkown band calling themselves Led Zeppelin. That was the night I fell in love for the first time.

Tonight I'm thinking of all the nights that followed, And all the days.

Thinking how we did all the Brooklyn things. Like lie in the sand on Manhattan Beach watching the sunset and the stars rise.

And the day you wore your first  two-piece, and you were so scared.

And the first night we went to dinner on Emmons Avenue, Randazzo's Seafood, while the Saturday night parade roared by.

But I remember the  other times too. 

Like sitting on the bluffs over Lake Ontario.

Like hitch-hiking on a two-lane blacktop in New Hampshire.

Like playing with a lion cub in Manitoba.

Like swimming in the lagoon in Montreal.

Now it's fifty-something years later. And the greyness is over our shoulders and gaining on us. And I've not seen you in forever.

All my love, J.

Second Time Tonight?

The next time I die I want to land in one of those monasteries, where the mummified bodies of monks and saints line the hallways grinning with some secret knowledge.

I can be happy there til the end of time, hanging on my hook in my robe, laughing with my friends at the idea that we might still be here....

And when it's all over,we'll laugh all the louder! Hear our broken bones rattle while we dance!

I Fell For You That Night

You know I've always been a little bit in love with you, don't you? Like maybe two and a half percent? Any more than that could be way too dangerous!

Do you remember when it started? I'm not sure. It might have been that night in the railroad station, waiting for the train under the summer stars after the show. Or it might have been that night we swam in the Aegean, a thousand years before Jesus was even a gleam in his daddy's eye.

I remember watching you that night, when you dropped your white linen dress on the soft sand. You laughed when you took the laurel crown from your brow and tossed it like a frisbee onto the cold forbidding rocks, then dived into the surf. You looked so brave!

Or maybe it hasn't happened yet? Maybe it's some day in the next milennium, when the sky is brighter and we're finally safe?

Either way, it'll turn out alright. Because how else could it turn out, if it's meant to be?

Fog

I saw you standing on the corner, backlit in the cold white fog. Angel in the mist, cold vapor crawling over you. I wished I could see your face.

But your face doesn't matter, it's your heart that counts. Do you love me like I hope you do? Or are you just another mummy drying in the desert sun? And did we make love on top of the pyramid, while the Aztec priests waited with their knives?

Their blades struck only the hot sandstone walls, we were already so far gone! See you next time around, but count the scars and keep track.

Amen

Next Time Around

Steel wheels rolling round that curve,

Foot steps echo on the tiles.

Your camera don't know how to blink,

so you miss it when heaven rolls by.

I wish I could take you down there, babe,

to hear your boots echo on the platform.

Wish I could spin you,

waltz you and twirl you,

But we were both already ghosts.

And the platform is empty,

but you and I are hiding

on the stairway 

where no one can see us.

And  your long white skirt billows,

and the ghost light is glinting

on the lightning flash

deep in your eyes.

And the sun is rising,

while the light is melting,

and the glass is burning 

in the sky light. 

In the skylight.

Good morning.

City Hall Station

Dance down the dying brick tunnels,

dance down the dark ferry wharves.

The ghost boats are watching,

pretending they're sleeping,

They're hoping you can't ever leave.

Dance down the black escalator,

dance down the grey marble aisles.

The shelves are all empty,

the help's all accusing,

and they're gonna keep you forever.

Dance down the sharp iron ribbon,

dance where you hide in the dark.

This station went out of business,

the steps are just echoes,

and nobody cares that you're there.

And the lovers

on the passing trains

are kissing in fluourescent lights

and thinking that you're just ghosts.

Christmas On The Beach

Maya strolls the beach

in a soft trance.

Slow like water,

Slow like a dream,

Slow like stars rising over the ocean.

Sun glinting copper on her hair.

Her eyes are wide open,

but she's not seeing the same world you see.

Her bare feet are kicking up little sprays of sand,

and that's strange because you swear

she's walking inches above the dunes.

She stops at the old stone circle 

in front of the light house,

her sisters are all there

standing on the stones.

She steps into the circle,

folds her hands

and whispers."Om."

She starts to unbutton her white cotton dress,

slow like a hurricane

slow like lightning.

She slips it off her shoulders

and her body becomes perfect light.

Perfect light, perfect light,

just before it turns to dust and wind.

Thanksgiving

That night you lit the candles in the rowboat, the woodfires were burning all around us. 

But you didn't care when the spray hit the flame, and the steam made us choke, and the bodies floated out of the mud.

And you're standing there, looking like 1965, silk blouse, pleated skirt. Hands folded. Eyes so hopeful.

And you're older than Buddha, but you're not yet sixteen. And you're untouched on some cold windy highland.

And I'm glad you still live here, but I still wish you'd left. Your husband was one of my idols.

And now it's Thanksgiving when people go home, if they still have a home to go home to.

So I guess I'll just love you, and hope it works out,'cos if not, ...eh!Th

Might Be The Start Of A Country Western Song

Your fingernails are all torn up

from shredding on your twelve string,

from tearing at your coffin lid,

from raking down my face.

Your eyes are dirty dark black holes,

your heart is cold and quiet,

it's all so full of grave dust,

but I can't stop loving you.

One Night In November

One night she came to me and said, "My name is Juliet. You want to worship me, don't you?

And I hated her for asking, so I told her to leave and not bother me again.

But I knew I couldn't fool her with that. She knew me way too well.

I remember that summer in Verona. The heat, the flies, the mosquitos, the friction of your blade on my throat.

The beautiful friction of your teeth on my throat....

And now I'm dying in your grave, my blade in your breast. Or is it the other way around?

If it is, please make it quick!

Day of the Dead, and the clocks turn back

The dead went back to their home tonight, glowing from candles, from photos, from favorite dinners, from calaveras. They came and helped fill the holes in our hearts that they left, when they left....

I know I'm antisocial, misanthropic. And that applies to the dead as well as the living. There are only three dead whom I really love. My grandmother, my aunt Margie, and Emily. Two of them made me what I am, the third loves me for that. 

Last night I lit candles on my altar for them. My buddha looked so good, surrounded by those flames. I laid out their favorite foods too. For Nana and Margie it was cups of tea. They both loved it so much! (Though Nana used to laugh when Margie made the tea. Far as she was concerned, if you could see the bottom of the cup it was too weak. She used to say, "That's not tea, it's dishwater!)

But for Emily it had to be ice cream. LOL no one in all history has ever loved ice cream the way she does.  Tonight it was green tea flavor, dotted with green grapes that I bought from FoodKick this morning.

And she's reading over my shoulder as I type this, and she's laughing. Her smile, her laugh, makes me feel like this whole universe might just be worthwhile. She's wearing brown corduroy jeans and an oversize green sweatshirt. Her ponytail is draped over her right shoulder, her tortoise shell glasses make her brown eyes look even bigger than they are.

I'm a lucky man!

Thank you, Nana, for teaching me how to forgive. Thank you Margie, for teaching me how to move on.  Thank you Emily, for showing me the joy in this universe. Gonna hug you so tight when we fall asleep tonight!

The clocks fall back at 2am. Who cares?

Some Days I'm Leonard Cohen, Some Days I'm Ralph Kramden's Ghost

Feels like it's been raining forever, the last time I saw the sun I think Shakespeare was a young man. Thought I'd ease the darkness some if I bought some new food dishes for The Skunk, doing nice things for him almost always makes me feel better. His old plastic dishes are getting ratty and there are no old china dishes. Anything breakable has a short life expectancy here.

So I went to Walmart and picked out some nice food dishes and a new water bowl for him. Taking care of him means a lot to me, means more the older he gets, because I've already decided he will be the last one. I've had cats just about all my life, but I'm too old now. When he's gone I'll have memories.

And I'm sitting here thinking about that, wishing I were sitting in that café on Rue St. Denis with you, holding your hand and looking out at the Montreal rain. Your hair is shot with rainy diamonds, your hands wrapped happily around the hot coffee mug. We were so young, and being young and free was all that mattered. I wish I'd treasured that time more.

The Skunk is curled up against my pillow in a warm soft circle, so perfectly self contained, his own little dreaming universe untouched by the rainy night. He's twitching in his sleep, I think he's dreaming about running. I hope it's a happy dream.

I hope my clumsy hands can keep his world happy, for however long we have left together. I know we've got a lot more time behind us than we do ahead, but if I use the time right I won't end up the ghost of Ralph Kramden, sitting in my bus driver uniform looking out my window at Chauncey Street in the rain, regretting.

Fingers Catching On The Sandy Grain Of My Hymnal

You're the only person in this universe for whom I give more than the absolute minimum of an obese rodent's rectum.

Guess that makes you my best friend.

That kinda scares me in a way.  I'm not used to caring about someone that much.

But I'll make an exception for you.

And damn, that makes me so happy!

Winter Sunday Night

Steam rising through the grates. Sun setting in the steam. Sparks flying in the mist. Hearts burning in the clouds.

And it's just a winter night, when the weather is too warm. And we're hoping for the spring. But it's a million miles away.

Please wish me how to die. I'll love you if you do. Please toss me in the sand.  The moon is rising  just for you.

The Tree Is Dead, Long Live The Tree

They tore down the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree Saturday night. I watched a time lapse video the next morning, the tree dying in the dark.

Raised in honor, lit in peace.

Three weeks later, the crane sending it to eternity. Which means a hell of a different thing  to trees than it does to humans.

Trees have much better memories. The Lakotah called them "The Standing Still People.

The Third Night Of The Year

I haven't put up Christmas decorations in years, but every year I do put the Christmas cards I get on my altar.  They look so warm and bright when a candle is burning alongside the Buddha.

Tonight I took them all down, and now the altar looks empty. I saved some, tossed others in the recycling. The room looks a little more forlorn now.

Then I looked out the window at the soggy winter raindrops hissing their way along the cold sidewalk. Across the street there's a few dead Christmas trees lined up on the curb, rainwater dripping through the sideways branches.

They just look sad.