The Wedding

I’m following the blue light. The beautiful, glowing blue light. Thru the mist and rain. Windshield fogged. Wipers trying to clear. Windshield wipers. Turpentine. Oh, nothing Janis. Nothing. Whither clean shirt, Kris? Somewhere in the distance. Blue. And soft. Beyond the neonticity of this world. I think I swallowed it. This fuzzy blue light. It’s beatin’ softly inside. Just out of reach. Bobby sings loud. I’m getting’ weary lookin’ my baby’s eyes. When she’s near me. She’s so hard to recognize. But I finally realize there’s no room for regret. Lyin’ down in the reeds without any oxygen. Headlights comin’ my way. I hit the brakes. I’m not that drunk. I realize my mistake.

I’m heading down a one-way street. The wrong way. She’s in her car behind me. Don’t reach out for me. Can’t you see I’m drownin’ too. Hell, I taught her how to drive. This long-haired sensual princess of negativity. This stray Bulgarian cat. Still following me. Brakes. Horn. Shit, I’m sorry. I’ve climbed the window. I’m lookin’ down on the wedding. I’m doin’ my best Dustin Hoffman for the one that got away. ELAINE! ELAINE! ELAINE! The whole wedding procession breaks into serious laughter. Lookin’ up at me! Pointing. Laughing. Mockin’. Mrs. Robinson, too. In stitches. The preacher says: Wrong wedding. I fall. I'm fallin'. She’s so beautiful in white. And yet in that self-deprecatin’ way says something about how foolish it was for her to have invited all those beautiful Latin babes. Swayin’. Grindin’ to the salsa beat. The perfect combination of skin and curve. Her hair’s cut off now. Now, she’s a 30’s silent movie star. Perhaps we never knew each other. Never had much to say. She’s flirtin’ with a teenager. A pair of kind Venezuelan eyes look my way. Oh, I’m in love. With kindness. Wisely, she’s taken the part about objections to the marriage out of the ceremony. My long speech in my pocket gone to waste. For the one that got away. Fear. Layers of fear. Dark cloaks wrappin’ the soft light in blue. Yeah, I was afraid. I went seekin’ something safer. I couldn’t risk it. Again. What are these changes? When did they happen. These changes in the mirror. No, no, no. That isn’t me. That isn’t me. When did they happen? While I was sleepin’? The voice inside: No, sir. Nothing has changed. I’m still here. I’m the same. Oh, the Little Prince. But the mirror? I reply. Oh, sir…I haven’t changed. The Little Prince inside. Hasn’t changed. Nor the need for the kind face.

The wedding is taking place. They are exchangin’ their vows. Oh shit…It’s me this time. I don’t remember. No, I don’t remember. My lines. She’s seekin’ me out. She’s found my shy clown self hidin in the back of the room. She’s seekin’ me out. To be her leading man. I’m getting’ weary lookin’ in my baby’s eyes. When she’s near me she’s so hard to recognize. I remember this playin’ when I asked her to marry me. We are drivin’ along a country road. Bobby is playin’ loud. We both understood that True Love Tends to Forget. So things had gone bad from our perfect love. But now we remember. We remember. We’d forgotten. And now the play is on. The ritual. The ceremony. Oh, why are we doing this? We’d already gone separate ways. But surely our once perfect love deserved some sort of ritual. And it’s between her and her dad. And the tears are flowing. I’m just an extra really. Though playin’ the part of the groom. The real drama is going on between daughter and father. It wasn’t incestuous. Unless being a psychological surrogate and replacement for the dead mother since the age of 6 counts. This ceremony I never got over. Independence Day. I but an extra in this drama. Before we were always on the same wavelength. And if it weren’t for her. I would never have been able to write my name. Afterwards, I forgot how for 15 years. Oh but I haven’t changed sir. The Little Prince. Glowin’ softly. A blue light. This I never got over. And now we’re yellin' at each other over the merits of Madonna and And Justice for All. Our circle of comfort obliterated. The two friends look away. Lyin' down in the reeds without any oxygen. Nickels and dimes, Arthur. They’re nickels and dimes, Arthur. They’re peeeeeeeeeeeple. No, they’re not gonna get him. Cuz I’m gonna get him. The man should go straight to fuckin’ jail. He’s guilty. He said so. He said he’s like to do it again! Others would come. The heart could break more. Flexible. Resilient indeed. But not like this. And now I’m driving down the wrong way street, a Bulgarian short-hair following….Venezuelan eyes reach out with kindness. Or is it pity. How does she know? Headlights blare in my eyes. Horns, too. STELLA! STELLA! ELAINE! STELLA ELAINE! I can’t be happy love, unless you’re happy too. So shalt that feed on Death; that feeds on men, And death once dead, there’s no more dying then. I’m still here, sir. I haven’t changed.

Brakes! Horn! I’m not that drunk yet. Walkin’ out into the crisp air. Seein’ the livin’ God in every streetlight. And then again wantin’ to turn it off. You can turn it off. You’re weak. You can turn it off. You’re weak. I should’ve known then. Perhaps I knew then. Strains of Peace Train. Fadin’ in on itself. Blurring into one. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Make it stop. You can make it stop. You can make it stop. The thump will not stop. Alleycats curlin' up, wrappin' around your leg. They know. The shortcut. Blake’s door swung wide open. Like a funeral pyre. I wish you well. I do. The blue light is closer now. Much closer. I can see it with my eyes. I can almost touch it. I grab it in my arms. I hold on for dear life. Spread eagle. I hear the cop say. And now I’m walkin’ the line. Handcuffed.. Safe from the haunt of kind eyes. Safe from rituals past. Safe from future rituals. I'm still here, sir.

And there in the email is that strange, silly, secret virtual world of one-liners and odd characters who come here everyday for refuge…to be themselves, to be somebody else, to forget themselves in a world of silliness. The email reads: Does anybuddy know how many kilobytes 177877235 bytes is? I try to tell the story of the flashing blue lights and the one that I lost and the one that got away.. The Grand Meister of Silliness replies: This is not blah blah blah day....just answer my question and help me out !! ps - does the venezuelan woman have a nubile perky-titted daughter? I have to smile. I forget about driftin’ into infinity. I wonder how the girl with the Towers of Grief and Compassion is doing tonight? I see her walkin’ by the river. I still see her flickerin’ gypsy eyes that I once fell through. I hear the ice clink out on the deck. On a starry starry Gogh Gogh Night. Van too is there. Wonderin' how we ever make it thru. Chet’s muted horn gives way to a Bach fugue floatin’ into space. Layer upon layer. The architecture of space. The stuff of light. The motion of the waves. She’s fallin’ thru the trampoline. I wonder if that brilliant young poet will make it through the fire. Or drown in the rocks like Quentin in the Sound and Fury. I wonder if I will ever lose this cloak that smothers the light within. This soft glowing blue light. I’m still here, sir. I’ve never changed. But I suppose you really want to know the details of the wedding--and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.

The Short Happy Life of Ernie H

Howard Cosell: The pressure is really mounting, ladies and gentlemen as Francis Macomber and Robert Wilson head into the jungle, guns cocked and ready to strike at the first sight of the white of the eyes of the mighty lion. We will see who the boss really is. Softly now, you can almost feel the tension as these two brave warriors approach the vicinity of the wild, untamed, undisputed Heavyweight Champion of the Jungle—Oh!
There he is! The lion roars! He’s polevaulting off those mighty haunches in the direction of the two hunters with the guns. Oops…But where’s Francis? He’s hightailing it in the other direction. Wilson looks the charging beast in the eyes…stares into the white angry void, aims, fires! The lion is down! The lion is down! The lion is back up! The lion is back up! He’s charging again…straight at Wilson…Kaboom! Wilson hits him again.
The lion staggers. 10, 9, 8, 7…he’s down…he’s really down this time. For the count.
But where has Francis gone? Oh, the ignominy! He’s fled, tail between his legs, like some oversized feminine pansy! The ignominy of it all!

Now Mr. Hemingway, why did you run like a coward when you saw the whites of the eyes of the charging lion?

Ernie H: (clearing his throat) May I remind you, Howard…that that is not me. That is a character in a fictional story, Francis Macomber.

Cosell: Oh, yes..but of course. So, tell us, Mr. Hemingway. Why did Francis run like a cowardly pansy from the King of the Jungle?

Ernie: I believe he was scared, Howard.

Cosell: Scared? That doesn’t seem very manly to me, Ernest.

Ernie: It’s a character, Howard. A character.

Cosell: Right.

Oh, there she goes. Mrs. Macomber is making a move. Dancin’. Flutterin’. What footwork. Back. Up. Back again. What moves.

Margaret: My Mr. Wilson…what strong arms you have.

Cosell: Wilson remains aloof. An implacable tree trunk of stoic masculinity. Wondering just what fools have hired him. Skillfully parrying each of her flutterin’ thrusts with implacable indifference.

Margaret: My Mr. Wilson, what a strong neck you have.

Cosell: Thrust. Parry. Indifference.

Margaret: My Mr. Wilson, what a big gun you have.

Cosell: Macomber, the yellow-bellied ignominious fleeing coward has just turned another shade of red. He may even get sacked, KO’ed. She’s getting closer, closer. She’s gonna score…

Margaret: My Mr. Wilson, what a strong—

Francis: Bitch!

Whistle blows. In walks the referee, Dr. Realidad, best-selling author of Men are from Uranus and Women are too. (But It’s All Good; See My Bank Account)

Cosell: Wait! There’s a flag! Penalty on the play. Illegal use of the charms!

Dr. Realidad: Now, Mrs. Macomber! This is no way to treat your husband!
And Mr. Macomber! This is no way to treat your wife!

Margaret: He’s a coward. He ran from a lion.

Mr. Macomber: She’s a bitch. She only stays with me because of my money. And I only stay with her because she’s too beautiful to leave. But not beautiful enough for her to leave me.

Cosell: You can almost cut the tension with a knife.

Dr. Realidad: Now, that is not very nice. We must play nice. These are the rules. Now, Mr. Macomber, your wife is not a bitch. Mrs. Macomber—your husband is not a coward.

Francis: She’s trying to sack Wilson.

Dr. Realidad: Yes, but she has been misprogrammed. We are going to reprogram her.

Ernie H: What the fuck?

Cosell: Quiet, Ernie…the tension is mounting.

Margaret: He ran from a lion.

Dr. Realidad: Well, golly gee…wouldn’t you?

Margaret: Yes, but I’m a woman. I could break a nail.

Dr. Realidad: Well, now…It’s ok for a man to show weakness; a woman, strength. And it’s ok for a woman to have more than physical beauty.

Francis: Huh?

Margaret: Huh??

Ernie: Huhhh?

Cosell: Huhh?????

Dr. Realidad: Anyway, these are foolish ego games. Who the hell is going to base their entire relationship on running from a silly lion in the middle of Africa?

Ernie: It’s a metaphor for character! Who is this? This is not my life. This is not my story. Where the hell am I?

Cosell: Quiet, Ernie. It’s just a character.

Dr. Realidad: Now, before this gets any uglier, kiss and make up, and forget these foolish follies.

Francis: Hmmm…well…

Margaret: Oh, ok. You’re the ref.

Cosell: They are kissing. What a renewal of eternal vows. If I weren’t such a macho man, I might feel a little moist now. Oh, the vicissitudes of life—victory stolen from the jaws of defeat. Wilson is shrugging his manly shoulders in utter disbelief.

Ernie: Shut the fuck up, Howard.

Cosell: The game commences! O Great Goodness Me! Francis M. is sleeping. But a lion has entered his dream. Mrs. M. has snuck off to lie with Wilson! She’s sacking Wilson! She’s sacking Wilson! The Lion is Roaring! Macomber is screaming. Make it stop! Make it stop! The Lion is charging! Again! Right at Francis! Francis is hauling his tail between his legs once more!!!! Again! Wilson shoots! He scores! Mrs. M rolls over, satisfied!
Now, they’re riding in the car. Shooting from the cars at three wild bulls! Kaboom! Kaboom! There’s no shooting from cars in Africa!!! The referee is hanging on for dear life, from the bumper, sucking exhaust! Kaboom!!! Kaboom!
And now Francis is not afraid! He’s not afraid at all! He’s lost his fear.
And Wilson has lost face!!! There’s no shooting from cars! It just isn’t done! He could lose his license! O the ignominy of it all!!! Suddenly Wilson doesn’t look so strong to Mrs. M! Scoffs at Wilson. But now she’s scared! Terrified that Mr. M is becoming a man…that he will now leave her!!!
Francis is gainin’ courage by the minute…ready to go in and approach the now wounded buffalo. Mrs. M is terrified at the change. She grabs a gun. Francis goes in…ready to go mano a mano with a charging buffalo!

Whistle blows! Freeze frame.

Dr. Realidad: No! No! No! You don’t have to do this to be a man. This is foolish. The buffalo is not a symbol of your manhood. And you, Mrs. Macomber, are beautiful just the way you are. Don’t you know the Billy Joel song. Never mind that he left her for a beautiful model who in turn left him for a beautiful model. That’s neither here nor there. Stop playing these foolish games! And you, Mr. Wilson, go study accounting!

Cosell: The buffalo rises, unwounded, doesn’t charge the men. The men drop their guns. They all hold hands and dance around in a circle as if they are figures in a Matisse painting. The Buffalo, too. They’re holding hands and singing: It’s too late to turn back now. I believe. I believe. I believe. I’m fallin’ in love. It’s too late to turn back now. I believe I believe I’m fallin’ in love. Round n round they go. In perfect harmony. Now they're singin’ that coke commercial. I’d love to teach the world to sing….

Ernie: What the fuck? This is not….

Dr. Realidad: You didn’t think that anyone would buy your sick, bleak view of the sexes, did you Ernie?

Cosell: Wait! A shot is fired! It’s Ernie. Killing himself. Once again. The people are filing out of the stadium. Leonard Cohen is singing. ‘They don’t let a woman kill you in the Tower of Song.’ Or is that Paula Cole: ‘Where have all the cowboys gone?’ Tune in next week for another chapter of Dr. Realidad reshaping the human condition.

My Ride's Here

The eternal Thompson gunner,
still wandering through the night...

keepin' up the fight
for love and justice
'neath the indifference of heaven.

It’s nighttime in the switching yard.
I hear Maria callin'.
Saying Veracruz is…
Dyin'.

I thought I heard somebody singin'

Time to place those lawyers, guns and money
In the ground, you excitable one.
That usherette, too.
Bones and all.
And draw blood
No more.

Sweet and soulful.

Time to pawn your Smith-Corona
And your Pioneer Chicken Stand
Let the worms have them--
This temporary cover
'Fore the meeting with the Man.

O don't it make you wanna rock n roll?

You stood in the fire
Your face all aglow
Listen' to Mariachi static
On a burnin' radio.
All night long.


Gorilla wrestling with an angel.
Zevie strikes up the band.

Dry your eyes my little friend
Crank that dead man’s song
Turn those speakers up full blast
Play it all night long
Hut!

Milton's holding his sides.
Lord Byron's packin' too.
Perhaps you'll meet in Denver
With plenty still to do.
Hut!

And Carmelita will be there.
To wake you for your meals.
Accidentally like a martyr
Someone's paid your bill.
Hut!

Gentle rain
Falls on desperadoes
All life flows
As you take that holy ride
yourselves to know
And comtemplate eternity.
In the sea.
Hut!

And I know your ride’s here.
It's Patty with the hearse
One more Figure to slay
One more burst.
And the seraphim shall
Lift you on your way.
Hut!

The eternal Thompson gunner,
still wandering through the night...
In walks the Village Idiot
His face all aglow singin':
We’re all gonna meet up at Lee Ho Fook’s.
And our hair will be perfect.
And aflow with tenderness on the block.

Thank you, Zevie.