Friday, October 22, 2004


tomorrow is spoken for
and tomorrow
and tomorrow...

this is the erosion of your days

you are needed and loved

you have a blessed role to play

even if it kills you

it is a small price

Wrote that one last night. Tried to crush the iPod in one hand. Can't. Too well made for that. And you might think from this poem that things are going darkly for me, and I am all down and like that. Not true. I'm the same little sunny optimist thankfulist as usual. But now and then you do have to write a dark poem, and even weep a little. And over what? That damned song on the iPod. Me and this song go way back, see. In the late 1960s when TV was still about entertainment, there was some variety show where this older, puppy-type fella sang the song. Maybe every week? Anyway, more than once. And I was a small boy and stood there riveted, my little heart being torn with love. See, the song is about mother love, your relationship with your mother. And to a small boy nothing is more holy than that. It's so important that you don't even think about it. But here was this song, someone actually singing about it.

Anyway, it's about dying, and meeting again in heaven (if there is one ... hah!) and the damned iPod played it last night as I lay in bed getting ready to sleep. Hence the weeping and the vain attempt to crush the iPod with one hand.

Fortunately, Tom Waits to the rescue. Gun Street Girl. The man is a genius:

He bought a second-hand nova from a cuban chinese
And dyed his hair in the bathroom of a texaco

And then my poem, and everything was all right.

No, I am not depressed. I am, in fact, alive. Everyone has to feel sad every now and then. Don't prescribe seratonin enhancers to me.
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