Open Mic Night

The following was written nearly two years ago. Back when I spaced twice after periods, and didn't know what an em dash was; Iwas alone in a communist coffee shop drinking not coffee but a pint of beer.

He’s a plucker. He sings of songs, words that he expects the moon to say to him, but he never says what the moon says. He sings of windows that faces appear in, but he never reveals who’s in them – who the people are. The secrets that the moon shares.
Thank you very much.

His voice, tender and sweet; he sings of streets he’s been on and people he’s witnessed on them but he doesn’t mention them by name. He’s as anonymous as they are.
Thank you very much.

German pop. He’s German, so he’s a few years behind and doesn’t seem to mind or doesn’t know any better. That’s him.
Thank you very much.

Now he sings in German and it doesn’t matter what he says, he says, we won’t know and it doesn’t matter, to him, to us. We listen, those of us remaining. It’s great because there aren’t that many of us left. Things sound better when there are fewer to enjoy it. Those of us that do. All backs are turned and he sings on. His sound inspires.
Thank you very much.

She’s back; I thought she left. Good. She’ll enjoy a few more numbers here with me even though we’re not together. What’s great about this, I mentioned, there’s hardly anyone here. The words sound better without a crowd loud. I can here them because I’m near them. They’re mine. His, but mine too. He was right, I don’t understand them, but enjoy them.
Thank you very much.

He plays Blackbird and the crowd goes wild; I do. It’s like beer, you have one, you have to have another. Recognize this cord… no….how bout this: Here Comes the Sun.

What if? He sings of love, and even if I don’t want to hear about love this night, I listen. It’s a nice song, really and reminds me of Lennon the Legend.
Thanks a lot.

This song’s called Lifeline. And, it’s a cliché. I’m sorry to say. Maybe he doesn’t realize it at this time but it’s true. A word. A message. A verb. A place to start over, again. We’ve had them -- lifelines. It’s OK, though. I think it’s possible in song, in verse. We accept. In writing it’s different. I can’t get away with it. But he writes. Am I just critical? Is this my cliché? If I can’t think of anything to write about, I write about the wrong doings of others? I’m not sure much is left for mystery. And so is he: Just come and talk to me. Thanks a lot.

Hans York played at the Red and Black Café in SE Portland, OR May 20, 2005. And I must have lugged my laptop there.

don't (M)ention it

Update! Medically, I'm attractive (better looking). My back is getting stronger by the day. Must be these Flintstone Vitamins I've been chewing. Or, these Percocet (I've been biting in half) I've been popping(!). However, there's a (several, really) side effect. Hair keeps growing on Face (and down my neck(!)), and for some reason Hand won't pick up a razor, direct said razor up and down Face. (Really) for the historical book of social dissent in the City of Portland (Oregon), "The Portland Red Guide" (available from Ooligan Press--see link below) I helped publish I've attempted to grow a Karl Marx beard, though it's coming in more like a Che (Guevera) beard. See Joke.

Q: What's black and white and red (communist, get it?) all over?
A: Face.
(Now laugh.)

Joke's over. Now, I've got a heart-accelerating ("We've Only Just Begun") poem for those of you still willing to check in.

Thanks for leaving the door unlocked
Sorry that I'm came over so late
I rode my bike, though
the one point six miles (mapquest),
the that many blocks
It was late at night but I wanted to see you
Sleep next to you
Wake up next to you

You were: nice;
unlocked the door (mentioned);
opened the window (it's been warm);
So goddamned irresistable (I got help with those words);
and, gone when I got up

Soon I'll work, too (it's sad, I know)
Soon you'll go away to school (sadder)
Then what?
I won't be able to feel my earlobe trace your nose
When your face is sleeping under my
unshavened one