My gig on Friday.

It's free - you should come if you live in Philadelphia.

For those present.

Whilst Not Paying Attention To James Joyce

I feel, in part, no longer as myself.
No longer recognizable are my
Feet below me;
-- Tweed socks, really?

Yes, they say yes, they are, yes.

I, unlike Joyce, have no qualms
With full stops. But, to think
In full thoughts belies
The Modernists’ movement:
Something about semi-
Transparent envelopes…

O to be in Londonderry,
or Derry! Dublin, County Cork, or
any other tiny green corner of
his corrupted country.

I would eat with relish some
Soda bread, perhaps even those damned
kidneys. I’d stroll along
Eccles’ Street, with waistcoast,
pocketwatch, cane in tow.

I had to write one about Neil eventually...

Devotion: The Ditch Trilogy

I – The Missing Six

When I first walked in on him in 1977,
He looked like Jesus in cheap shades –
A burnt-out leftover of the hippie crowd,
Not the same man from Yasger’s Farm.

He was barely conscious,
Coke on his face, unused guitar at his side,
Just exclaiming,
“He’s dead! He’s dead! We’re all dead!”

“I need a crowd of people, I just can’t
Face them day-to-day,” he moaned.
After I cleaned him up a bit, we sat
And talked about all we were missing.

“A man needs a maid, you know?”
He told me, whilst lighting a cigarette.
I told him I felt like I always understood him,
And he just shrugged.

It’s hard to meet the ones you love,
When they can’t make sense of it all:
He was just bemused when Kurt repeated his old lie:
“It’s better to burn out than to fade away.”


II – Time Fades Away

In 1989, he came out of synthesized hibernation
Chock full of love for his adopted nation,
Draped in sleeveless flannel, and swearing to
“Keep on rocking in the free world.”

------------------------------------

When he turned sixty-four, I had to ask
“Has your band begun to rust?”, to which
I received no answer.

He spent much of his time with King and Old Black,
His dog and a guitar he won from Stephen Stills,
Back in 1969.

He passed nights in front of a fireplace in his house,
An old wooden ranch with Indian print carpets,
Almost in tears.

His bandmate and buddy Danny Whitten, died, but
The best that Neil Young could muster in response:
“Time fades away, man.”


III – Hello, Mr. Soul

“Shelter me from the powder and the finger,”
He begged, wishing he could talk to his boy,
Or love his wife again.

He told me he wanted the trains to run
On time; I told him to get a model set,
So he bought them all.

On our last trip to Tulsa, AZ, we camped
Down by the river, and he told me about his
Cinnamon girl.

He said he met her on a beach in Spain,
Which he’d never been to, but dreamt of
Every night.

We’d laugh and drink and reminisce, until
His fans or Crosby, Stills or Nash
Found us.

He told me never to worry –
“It’s only castles burning, man,” he would say
To comfort me.

I will remember those nights and dreams
When I lie alone, passing on to meet you,
Where we can again try to speak freely.

Out of the black, and into the blue,
I hoped that one day I would really
Get through to you.

Gotta Love Baseball

Land of the Braves

I stayed up all night watching
Little Big League on HBO.
I loved how an 11 year-old kid
Could own and manage the Minnesota Twins –
Made me want to visit the Midwest:

Maybe I could take over the Cleveland Indians,
And stride out proudly over Jacobs Field,
Taking them all the way to the pennant,
With plucky players like Willie Mays Hayes
And Bull Durham…

I was mixing movies in my mind, trying
To create a baseball-tinged dreamland.
I was told if I built it, they would come,
That if I came to America I would find
The place that I loved every summer,
Where eating apple pies & ice cream
And knocking back Coca-Cola each day
Doesn’t lead to diabetes.

Not sure if I should post this one.

One About Doubt & Other American Pastimes

My glances were hardly subtle –
I never figured out how you’re supposed
to behave around others, or
when you’ve been staring too long,
how to pretend you’re looking elsewhere.

Someone asked if I was alright;
they were glad I came back, they said.
I smiled awkwardly, mumbled thanks,
sitting in a satin suit jacket and paisley red,
feeling aristocratically out of place.

You whizzed by.

There was this sad sensation eking through me,
that somewhere there was an empty space
I should’ve been filling:
perhaps I should’ve been a farmhand in Iowa,
toiling with spuds like only a Mick knows how.
I would work all day, come home to a dusty family,
and read Great American Novels by candlelight.

I would meet God in a field at dusk, He
would be pleased with my tilling and
might take me out for a Coors Light,
at the Storm Lake Saloon,
where he would destroy me at pool.

Elegant in defeat, I retreated from my mind.
It was seven months ago today
I’d stared at a river and hoped I could fly.
I didn’t know you then, not like I know my
oak-walled farm house near Aurelia, IA.
Sadly, I don’t know if I will ever see the inside
of either of you.

Another one pertaining to music.

Custard

I want my lyrics to slop out slowly,
Like thick sugary custard,
And douse the world, falling uniformly
As an infinite duvet over pastures of plenty.

My yellow tones could seep
Between your ears, filling
The crevices of your cranium
Until you sank in to a sucrose coma.

I’m not sure music can do this anymore;
If things sung or stated
Can evoke emotion through life’s commotion.

Born today, I bet that
Wagner would compose TV soundtracks,
Dylan would write jingles,
And Coltrane would be in Conan’s band.

The messy goodness of music has expired;
It’s become mouldy and a skin’s dried on top,
Which can be pierced and exploited:

“I am great ELVIS”, saith the rock (‘n’ roll),
Just a fat chump in a campy jumpsuit
Whose mincemeat words
Will be remembered for all eternity.

More Music & History.

Robert Johnson Sold His Soul To The Devil

A jet-black man in a dark grey suit,
A boy wearing all he owned.
A contract signed, no
Lawyers present, no
Blood spilt.

I know nothing about the
Plains of the Mississippi,
But I felt him standing,
At the crossroads, crying.

With his piece of old wood, shaped like
Someone’s grandma,
A 1931 Gibson L-1,
He sat there whistling
And aching to be on his way.

He wanted to come with me.

Up to this point,
He existed just between
Sheets of vinyl
And hushed rumours
Of plantation workers,

Of Delta-dwellers,
Cotton pickers,
Jazz musicians,
And the assembled choirs of angels.

But he was in town for just one night,
Back to reclaim the blues from Whitey
And those who don’t know what it means
To dust your broom
With a kind-hearted woman.

He had his Tennessee flat-top box
And that dumb smile of a man
Who knows he was out of his depth
Many years before.

That one suit he owned,
With the wide lapels and tight pinstripe,
Was draped over his bony frame,
His big fedora cocked sideways;

I felt every song love ever written
Sublimate away as
He walked onto the stage,
Unafraid of death.