Dylan just poured snare into my coffee.
Saturday morning diner in Hell’s Kitchen and the blonde in the booth ahead of me keeps looking over. Her eyes conspire against her boyfriend’s who is flirting with his omelet. Beads of sugar rain onto the table as if searching for a necklace they were never a part of. I wonder how many nights make up a “later.”
The guilty undertaker sighs.
The lonesome organ grinder cries.
The silver saxophones say I—
Should refuse you.
But I don’t. Instead I take on the persona of all three. Counting death around me in exchange for hope. Seated alone surrounded by a staircase of keys and puddles of pedals that soak my feet. I hear blown tenor notes that I know are against better judgment. But there is harmony in discord too.
He doesn’t just want her. He wants her “so bad.” But he knows he can’t have her, and he’s forced to sing his petition to the lonely hustler on the street rather than the muse of his lyrics.
There will be no savior to the politician either. There will be no interruption. The only thing left to do is get drunk with his audience of degenerates. Yet he can’t even do this. His cup is broken, forcing the wounded wanderer to face the streets under the bleak and honest cloud of sobriety. Like Coleridge’s ancient mariner his song is ignored by the one who needs to hear it most. The up-tempo of the tune set to illustrate the street of ignorance around him rather than the weariness of his fight. Harmonica swings at the end of each chorus reminding us of the masochistic pleasure of rejection.
Honey, I want you.
The fathers of the streets are gone now. I am left alone to seek out the regular alleys for the broken angels. All I find are message-less glass bottles and cigarette butts smoked down to the filter. Daddy’s girl-daughters continue to put me down and I try not to think about it.
What is there left to do but turn back to chance? The ‘Queen of Spades,’ lady luck herself--a metaphor for putting the chips back onto the table and raising the stakes. Not to be afraid to look another “her” in the eye, even if she is the black mamba. She’s always been good to me. She sees right through me. Her and her three sisters. And no matter where I’d like to be, we both know it doesn’t matter.
Not a whole lot of choices left for our young poet. Shuffling toeless chucks through the filthy gutters, it’s either listen to the wail of the sax or be seated around the table of sharks. They’re all holding full houses, ladies over jacks, and he knows that. And yet he still musters the gusto to blow on his harp to the falling escalator of down-beat organ notes and peccadillo guitar plucks.
Everyone else in the world is dancing. Why not our singer?
Was I good to you? Was I?
Unsure of himself, he is humiliated to seek approval from her. Even though you lied. The whole time taking me for a ride. And now not even time is on my side. I march on to the beating of a silent drum invisible to the world, but what is even of more consequence is that I am invisible to reflection. A sinister cloak wrapped around my shoulders conceals me from the eyes of hope. From the ears of discord. From the vagabonds of jeopardy. From the sirens of chance. From the players of thievery. And from the arrows of Phoebus.
Sweep on harmonica. Sweep on.
Not bad at all. It won't be long before you're brave enough to throw away your crutch and leave Dylan and all your other inspirations behind to compose your own orignal lyrics and music.
ReplyDeleteOriginality does not exclude inspiration. Nor does it prohibit an ocassional borrowing of lines from someone elses masterpiece as is evident by Kid Rock's, "All Summer Long" or Johnny River's "Summer Rain".
All it takes is the balls and willingness to stand naked in front of the whole world - including all your family and friends and say, "This is me - warts and all."
I know you'll be there one day. You are so close now.