Life is Ordinary

Life is ordinary
Isn’t it
For the fortunate few
But to the untrained
To the capsized
Whether they cry big or small
It’s something else man
And even ordinary
Isn’t quite what you think
I suppose

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Bad Guitar Player

He sat in there day and night
Like many a fine guitar player had
Strumming, guessing, playing, thinking
Only this one played all by himself
For himself
No love for any audience, future, present or past
He loved the sound of his pleasure
He was strange towards his pain
He didn’t want to express it
Just have you believe it was never there
Have himself believe the same
You could tell he was a bad guitar player
Because he had no rhythm
The foot stomps on the floor
And harpist’s hand across the strings
Gave only the bland
Not even a faint impression of the talked about music
His ignorance and vanity could not whisper a note


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David’s Dream

What was up with that name, man
It wasn’t you
Then again, it was
You had the gift to see yourself
As you wanted to
And your dream
Was for everyone to share
The joy with you
I’ll remember, of course I will
With beautiful songs and moods
I’ll remember
That David’s dream came true
Love you, need you, thank you.
God bless

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People at the Bar

He wanted to have the feeling again. Darn it, he sighed, always looking back, he thought to himself. Inside a warm place with tinsel around his neck. Christmas time. That was the goal. He could remember the scent and feel of the tinsel. Strangely comforting. They were a good gang and the restaurant did feel festive; trinkets, lights, decor, busy, commotion. He barely had the money but he’d live for another day, why the hell not, he said, closing the door and heading into the cold, a person with purpose, someone with something.

It would feel much more like the tinsel paradise dreamworld if he could touch her, not all the way, not skin, just hold her, in her clothes, on his lap. He didn’t know her like that, she was a friendly barmaid, very nice, liked him, but it wasn’t like that. Still, he could bath in her glow a little bit, at least, waft over some of that warmth from the other side of the bar.

It wouldn’t really feel like the old Christmas memory, that was back then, this was now, how could it feel like that, fully? That was more about youth; years gone by; family; people being younger; friends and loved ones still alive; the house; the street; the time he never considered would one day be gone – the time he did not, could not, fully appreciate. ‘Ah, the young,’ his mother would say. Yeah, he was young, for a very long time…

It was better with everyone around, and they were that night, the regulars came in. Nice people, like a family really, not that he’d spent much time with them, but, you know, it was going that way, it was nice. It wasn’t the same but it was something else, he was occupied another way, it was a good thing. He needed this really, it was his personality. He didn’t need to drink too much, of course, that would have been a whole other direction, that’s not what it was about – it was fun to have a few though (that’s just a whole other area, isn’t it? Wonder what will happen with that slippery road? Who the hell knows?).

They liked him, spoke to him, invited him, there was kindness. It’s different now, he thought, when he was thinking about the people at the bar during the day. It’s just different now. How could he make it more like the tinsel wrap. He didn’t really want to, even if he could, even though he’d gone out that night because he was feeling lonely and craved that feeling. All the work you’d have to do to re-create the past, and would it really work after all that? It wasn’t worth it, he thought, it wouldn’t be any fun (he recently read advice by an entrepreneur printed on a plague in an eatery, it said have fun, if it’s not fun, put it down, move on). Maybe there was something else.

He remembered his pal who said, ‘Maybe I should have had kids.’ From the way he said it, it sounded like the guy should not have had kids; he wasn’t surprised the guy didn’t have kids, with that attitude. Kids aren’t some car you should have owned, buddy, or an investment you should have been all over, like white on rice. You can’t just create all this stuff, it has to happen somehow, you know. A stream, a raft, you, flowing with the current. He was sure of his musings, they were an old friend. So much in his head, and a lot back then too, but different, just different.

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In this hotel
They have a monthly rate.
Wonder what his story is?
Well, I know part of it,
The last ten years, at least.
Kinda like me, I guess,
In a sense, walking around.
Those shorts, shoes,
Sweat pants and baseball cap,
They belong to a young man.
He wears them well though.
I can see him 20 years ago.
Maybe he can too.
That might explain his eyes.
Transfixed they are,
On something,
Or maybe it’s a health condition.
Still steps out for a smoke.
I’m going to ask him
What he’d like to do.
Gotta love ’em.
Hey, this guy’s a lifer.

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Funky Dame

Remember that song,
Doin’ it in the Park?
She’s doin’ it in the park.
Hair all chemical’d
and funkafied.
Pants, I don’t know,
Stripey, baggy.
Sweater, I don’t know,
Long, baggy.
Satchel, hanging low,
Like some kinda
Funky postal carrier.
Pricey though, I bet,
All of it.
Buckley boots too.
Fashionable meets
Her own thing.
You go girl.
Transmitting herself
Through the gardens
Of Central Library.
Los Angeles needs you.
What do you need?
Full of desire, I think.
Grrrl, I feel you.
It’s been a long road.

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Sam’s Club

Sam is like an old dog.
He comes into the cafe moaning and groaning,
And feeling quite stiff.
He makes good noises.
Eye for the ladies, for sure.
His delight was unmasked
While the cheerleaders tried out,
On the large tv screens.
He used to work in a laboratory of some kind.
He talks passionately of the tapeworm.
He told me, beware the tapeworm.
Newspapers are a good time for Sam.
He speaks highly of a police officer
Who was very good at resolving problems peacefully
It’s rough out there, he says.
He makes it good in here,
In the cafe, everyday;
Sam’s club.

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