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.


Agua_por_favor said...

Carole King or "No Sleep 'til Brooklyn". Otherwise, play it again, Sam.

Floyd Landis said...

I am not a doper, but I am an asshole.