I couldn’t believe my ears, but there it was, unmistakable.
C.W. was singing again. Not only singing, he had one of my guitars and was
pounding away in near-rhythm. What the…?
I stepped through the door and stared. It was C.W. in what
is his current favorite form, the Galilean. He didn’t see me at first so I watched
as he wailed,
“I was lost, my life
was murky,
You come along, lookin’
cute and perky,
I snatched a grab and
you just melted,
Like Joan of Arc, so I
knew you felt it,
Love, love, like a
sweet rain fallin’”
I must have gasped, for he stopped and looked up. “Hey Big
Dope, what’s up?” Then he appeared to have an inspiration and started singing
again.
“You walked in and I
was singing,
Words of praise, your
ears was ringing,
So I sang loud and the
world stopped turning,
Paris fell, and Rome
was burning,
Love, love like a
kitten purrin,’”
He stopped. “What do you think?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I think maybe I nodded but I’m
not sure.
“Don’t talk to me about great literature,” he said. He
gathered his white robe beneath him and reached for a pitcher of, I learned
later, frozen margaritas. He filled a glass and sipped. Then he seemed to
notice me again. He nodded toward the pitcher. “Want one?”
I still couldn’t find my voice, so I just shook my head. “My
second batch,” he said. “I heard that songwriters must get stoned.” He stopped,
“Hey,” he said, grabbing pen and scribbling like a maniac. “Songwriters must
get stoned … no, lonely people must get stoned … no, crazy people must get
stone … no, poets and prophets must … oh Me... who the hell must get stoned? Oh well. I’ll think of it
later.” He put the pen aside and sipped his drink. “Must be one too many
mornings,” he said, then stopped and grabbed the pen again. “… and a thousand
steps, no, drinks, no, smiles, no, something something something … a thousand
somethings behind.” He resumed his drinking.
I found my voice at last. “Would you mind telling me what
you are doing?”
“Just hanging out on Desolation Street,” he said. “Street,
road, trail, Desolation Something.” He forgot me again and started writing.
“Doing what?”
“Gonna be a poet,” he said. “A singing poet. Maybe be one of
them laurellets some day.”
“So you mean laureates?”
“Ain’t that what I just said? Geez. You walk into the room, with
your uh, hmmm … briefcase, yeah, briefcase … in your hand.” He froze and
grabbed the pen. “Wait one,” he said as he began to scribble.
“Have you gone mad?”
“They say all us poets are mad,” he said. “And you know you
have to have a news man to know which way the vote goes.” He stopped and looked
up. He nodded and smiled. “Listen to this.” He started to sing.
“I met you in the
cornfield, right around Christmas time,
I liked the way you
jiggled, so I thought I might drop a dime,
You ran off and left
me, for a holy-roller preacher man,
Then I knew that I
would find you, sittin’ in a witness stand.”
He looked a me and smiled. “What do you think?”
“I think maybe you mixed your metaphors.”
“My whatafors?”
“Never mind,” I said. “Are you going to be a while?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Ain’t you going to stay and listen?”
“I’d rather shoot myself,” I said.
For a moment he looked hurt. Then he smiled, cocked his head
to one side, looked down and started writing.
“Yonder stands old Big Dope with his gun … no … yonder
stands your landlord with … no … yonder stands your best friend … no … mentor …
no … brother … cousin … hus …”
I quietly slipped away. Later I walked by the door and heard
him still at it. “Stuck inside of Pittsburgh …no … stuck inside of Dallas … no …
stuck inside of Cleveland … Tucson … no … oh crap!”
This time I didn’t stop. They were announcing the Nobel
Prize winners and I wanted to see if there were any surprises. Probably not,
but who could tell?
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