Saturday, February 14, 2009

No Other




Saturday afternoon
lying on the couch in a fog
crying.
Gene Clark,
my grandma loved you.
While spinning Mr. Tambourine Man
she called into my teenage room
'that's a Missouri boy singing 
on that doin's.'
Picked you up out of the blue 
she did,
and weren't you blue, Gene.
I don't believe I'll ever hear
the sound of heartache's strings
sing so true
sing so clear
sing so you.
So here we are,
on this couch
on this saturday afternoon
alone,
you and I.
Your songs always end in major
after a long drift through minor.
I believe you are my Orpheus 
wandering afraid into the underworld
searching for your only love
searching for your only life.
Gene Clark,
I have never heard a voice so afraid.
Lying on this couch
remembering your last hours
dying in a fog on a couch
alone
because you knew there was no other.
I know you're not dead
because you never lived,
only watched
and said
and left.

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

This is the most perfectly written piece of yours I've ever read. It's stunning. Powerful and stunning. Don't change a lick. Publish it.

ScaughtFive said...

Thanks. He's my north star.