This is part of a new series of ten poems, where each one is going to be sparked by an exact quote from someone I know. The quote is something they wrote, said, shouted or whispered. It then moves beyond the quote and I make up my own story or add my own thoughts. Similarities to people real or imagined are real or imagined.
"It's just so fucking fake out there now. No souls on the row."
His transparent onion skin was clear for now.
His messages floated down the telephone wires like a letter wet in the grass, ink running
Covered from head to toe in tinsel with
dirty cowboy boots and a shiny gold record
moving like moths to light
toward Christmas lights and Miller Lite
in the bar downtown, the Bluebird where all the songwriters
go.
The spark and fire of busking is now just enough
to get from the couch to the stove in the kitchen
I am him, he is me,
my Nashville connection
he has no idea
what that town has meant to me.
The difference is he actually went, he actually followed the muse there
all the way down Highway 51 and made it safe and sound
but now his guitar is quiet and his long hair is dirty
who knows
maybe he cut it off
I remember doing that
I remember cutting my losses
How strange it is to realize
that songwriting isn't buried treasure
it's lightning in a bottle.
You need to look up.
he said his mental health is better
now that he's not trying
to be
a
musician.
I know though
he will keep writing and his muse will tap him on the shoulder
even though getting older
is a scary, strange thing.
Maybe an old leather hat, can tip to him at the brim
for never having to say, "what if?"
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