To be respected by your family,
those you like and know,
is often not enough acclaim
to satisfy, and so
we seek to become famous,
in this lifetime or the next,
a bigger fish than all the rest
and so command respect.

As the sphere of your influence
expands, you gain some perks:
you get your way more often,
and can boss around more jerks,
perhaps a bigger house or car,
more money in the bank,
a longer list of so-called friends
who think you owe them thanks.

From strangers, you gain envy;
from criminals, their lust;
and at some point, the tiny circle
that you know and trust
continues to diminish, until
they grow tired and leave,
exhausted from competing
with the users you believe
would be there if your fortunes
were one morning found reversed,
who only stroke your ego
as a way to line their purse.

I wanted to be famous once.
I thought it would be great
to live as if my word was law,
to die and lay in state
while mourners passed through teary-eyed,
my name upon their lips:
the mind, the face that changed the world,
that launched a thousand ships.

But now, I wonder, what's the point
of seeking such applause,
and seek instead a smaller crowd
of friends and kin, because
the bottom line is this, you know:
you get what we call fame
when people you don't know or like
pretend to know your name.

30 APR 2006

Some dreams are meant to fade away with age;
starting another chapter means you've got to turn the page.
What seemed the promised land back in your youth
becomes a lawn to mow, and it's the truth:
it's hard when you start watching from the side
when you remember how it felt to ride

It don't get good mileage, doesn't have too much appeal
The tires are going bald, there's a loose screw behind the wheel
When we're on the street I'm sure that people stop and stare
Don't where we're headed, but I hope that we get there
We keep getting old, but not much wiser
Welcome to my Midlife Chrysler.

Sometimes its hard to try and act your age;
just 'cause you're getting old, doesn't mean that you can't rage.
But battles won or lost don't make a war,
when you've got more to lose now than before:
Yet it's hard to let that feeling slip away
when the balance of your life is yesterday.

It don't get good mileage, doesn't have too much appeal
The tires are going bald, there's a loose screw behind the wheel
When we're on the street I'm sure that people stop and stare
Don't where we're headed, but I hope that we get there
We keep getting old, but not much wiser
Back in the shop ... my Midlife Chrysler.

You may call it vintage, but it's not the same as wine;
Past a certain point, you end up tinkering all the time.
Then the parts start wearing out that are hard to replace
and all that mileage shows up on your face.

You can't put a wild beast in a cage;
and there behind the curtain, you're still standing on the stage.
The pace is slower, but the view is grand;
we can watch the young fools, hand in hand.
This ol' ride's still rolling, and there's room enough for two
No telling what this crazy heap can do...

It don't get good mileage, doesn't have too much appeal
The tires are going bald, there's a loose screw behind the wheel
When we're on the street I'm sure that people stop and stare
Don't where we're headed, but I hope that we get there
Sure we're getting old, but somewhat wiser ...
Hop on in my Midlife Chrysler.

28 APR 2006

Halfway up to Shreveport
driving to outrun the storm
I knew somehow there'd be no going back.
There was no sign yet of water
and the breeze was soft and warm
but the skyline in the rearview mirror was black.
We had a hunch that morning we should go;
thinking that we'd just be gone a day or so.

We spent all day Monday
with an eye on the TV,
watching as the worst seemed to go by.
Listening to the talking heads
outside on Bourbon Street
who kept the cameras pointed at the sky.
But when we heard the levees busted through
we didn't need a photograph, we knew

All those years of living were a span of borrowed time,
and it really doesn't matter which was yours and which was mine.
It don't make no difference where you want to lay the blame
'cause the score ends up with both sides at zero
if you don't watch the undertow.

We drove back to Natchitoches
to sleep at a hotel,
the lobby filled with countless refugees,
each one of us in limbo
under some strange kind of spell
thinking life should offer up some guarantee.
But it never really happens quite that way;
all you really ever have is just today.

And the headlines in the paper
went from bad to even worse:
seems the uglier, the more it lingered on.
With the worst part the denial
from those safe and dryly perched
that the place we thought was home was really gone.
It took a while before the truth sunk in:
that we had no choice but to begin again.

All your years of living are a span of borrowed time,
and it really doesn't matter what is yours and which is mine.
It don't make no difference where you want to lay the blame
'cause what's up ends up in pieces down below
if you don't watch the undertow.

28 APR 2006

This is the oyster; why seek for the pearl?
There's no escape plan for leaving this world
in my religion: no hereafter gold,
no burning embers, no cold of Sheol.

This is the medicine; why seek a pill
to flee reality, thinking you will
by any action change the universe,
except, perhaps, to make it a bit worse
with senseless struggle against so-called fate,
hedging your bets hoping it's not too late.

This is the path you're on; why second guess?
No point in leaving this life in a mess,
hoping salvation will come undeserved,
praying the universe doesn't throw curves.

There is just oyster; that one grain of sand
turned to a pearl in the palm of your hand
is just some excrement to soothe the pain
of the endless ocean. Time and again
it waits at the shoreline to carry us out,
waits while we ponder, apostize and doubt.

This is the world that is; why seek one more?
Who knows what waits beyond the tide's great roar?
This is your heaven, or this is your hell.
It too will pass away, after a spell.

24 APR 2006

Dear Coca-Cola:

Please take a minute to review your situation. I realize that it must seem important to keep up with the Joneses (and I mean that figuratively; I don't seriously believe the Jones Soda company is any significant threat to you), but REALLY. There are now so many different Coca-Cola products on the market (the latest being Coca-Cola Blak, which by the way tastes like a badly mixed Kahlua and Coke) that it is getting nearly impossible to walk into a convenience store and exit carrying a Coke and a pack of cigarettes. Not that it's your business about the cigarettes, but ...

I should think that your experience with "New" Coke (and admit it, you blew it there and in some tizzy over celebrity endorsements for Pepsi you listened to somebody who probably should have been committed and "changed" the Coke formula) would have taught you something. Keeping up with the Joneses did not help you there --- and in fact, probably started Michael Jackson's downward spiral thanks to his endorsement of your competitor's product. Stick to what you're good at. Stick to what works. Plain Coke works. Real Coke drinkers (who are your audience anyway) drink it. And isn't that what you want, anyway? A devoted power base for whom if asked "Is Pepsi OK?" will say "Hell, no." and drink tap water before substituting anything for a Coke. Those real Coke drinkers don't need lime, cherry or vanilla varieties. Most of 'em don't need Diet, Caffeine Free, Caffeine Free Diet, etc. either. Haven't you noticed? Like the substance that used to be an ingredient in your formula, what you have is STILL pretty damned addictive. So don't mess with it; don't gussy it up, don't change the packaging, the formula or the varieties. They're simply not necessary. And here's why:

Coca-Cola, not any other brand of carbonate beverage, is asked for nationwide. When someone requests a soda, soft drink, soda pop, a cold drink or a pop, chances are they mean Coca-Cola. Hell, sometimes ANY kind of soft drink is referred to as a "Coke". Perhaps that's because with the exception of Big Shot Rootbeer (which is only available in and around the New Orleans area anyway), and perhaps Verner's Ginger Ale (likewise geographically limited, albeit to the Midwest rather than Midsouth) Coca-Cola is the most consistently satisfying carbonated beverage ever created. It also, with the aforementioned Big Shot Rootbeer again excepted, is the most logical, statistically preferable additive to any number of alcohol based cocktails. Who asks for an "Rum and RC" or "Jack and Pepsi"? A Bacardi and Tab? Get real.

So think about it, Coca-Cola. Focus on what you're good at, and forget the short-term, fancy-pants fads and those "Coke drinkers" who think Coke isn't good enough as is. They are NOT Coke drinkers.

Sincerely,
A Lifelong Coca-Cola Drinker (except for that short stretch of years, when due to the proximity of the Pepsi bottling plant to my grandmother's house in rural Ohio, I was forced to swill things like Teem).

Speak to me in ancient tongues
as if in my subconscious mind
the threads of some genetic past

can be rewound around a lingo
neither you nor I now know;
or better yet, just make it up

as you go on. For heaven's sake,
don't let the conversation drag;
it wouldn't do now to let on

that it's just nonsense. Go on, spew,
and we'll agree, the two of us,
that it's either a fragment from

some yellowed scroll of Babylon,
or else the language demons use
when they've got naught but bullshit, too.

24 APR 2006

There must be something more to it,
some sense behind the scenes,
a glimpse of meaning not quite shared,
or else my mind's not keen
enough to understand the point
of merely keeping track
of each new day's minutiae;
the long hours looking back
on what appears so trivial
would seem to waste, in turn,
great spans of time recording it;
who has such time to burn?

And why think such small moments
are something to be shared,
imagining some audience
is out there, and will care?
I wonder, in a thousand years,
will my old grocery list
of little peeves and daily notes
stand out from the great mist
and find interpretation
as the cipher that unlocks
the soul of this time that we're in,
or if it's just a crock.

23 APR 2006

Borrowed from Ed Book. After reading his results, I was intringued, but did not imagine that my own results would prove equally as insightful. I'm really quite surprised at how closely this set of ten selected interests REALLY sums up a good part of who I am.

1. bukowski:
   Poetry, in a world that discounts art, that praises mediocrity, that devalues beauty by worshipping youth, is not pretty. That to me is the lesson of Bukowski. Combine that with his general philosophy that great writers are born, not made, and I'm hooked.
2. dictionaries:
   Words, words and more words. For a time, I used to read the dictionary for relaxation. Words have power; to know the name of a thing is to control it. Likewise, to know the origin of a word is to understand your own history. I've always been fascinated with learning new words, new ideas, new facts.
3. gil scott-heron:
   The power of the word to fuel a revolution. The tangible strength of the spoken voice to connect the earth to the sky and rumble the foundations of power. I remember the first time I listened to "Small Talk at 125th and Lenox" all the way through; it was not just the stuff of revolution, it was revelation. This was what poetry, when harnessed to will and a microphone, was capable of doing. This was slam without competition; this was performance.
4. india:
   Apparently, my first word was "elephant". I have always been drawn to India: her people, her languages, her diversity, her religions, her extremes, her history.

   Om namah shivaya

5. lefty frizzell:
   Wow. So far, this interests grabber is right on the money. Lefty Frizzell represents the clarity, phrasing, intelligence, humor and lyricism of traditional country. He is one of my all-time country music idols, and paved the way for many others - Willie, Merle, George Jones, Roger Miller, and me.
6. perennial philosophy:
   This phrase, used but probably not first coined by Aldous Huxley in his book, sums up my life's spiritual quest: to find the common threads that run through all religious traditions; to seek the truth that does not fade although its names change from generation to generation; to learn to appreciate the journey spent along the shore communing with the ocean, rather than grasping for a single grain of sand to call the answer.
7. revolution:
   To change the world by changing oneself; to call for a reinforcement of evolution; to participate in the world at the speed of now, moving with the spheres as they revolve. To constantly challenge the status quo; to resist the urge to stay self-satisfied; to never be satisfied with "because it's always been that way" or "you can't fight City Hall" or "no fish ever got caught, 'cept it opened its mouth".
8. sonnets:
   So short, so simple, so compact, those fourteen little lines. Ah, you can take your Milton, Steven Vincent Benet, Longfellow, Poe, Pope and other such longwinded fellows; and give it to me sweet and intricate. To master the sonnet is to understand what it means to call poetry an art form. It is to appreciate the limitations of language, and at the same time, comprehend its infinity. That's not an easy lesson to learn, absorb or accept.
9. vedanta:
   Two of the most influential books in my life have been "The Gospel According to Sri Ramakrishna" and "The Complete Writings of Vivekananda". It's my understanding that these two sources form the basis for much of what is called "modern" Hinduism. Certainly, this was the form that reached the West, and has influenced so many of the writers and thinkers that I love and respect.
10. zen:
    The first Eastern religion that I attempted to practice was Zen Buddhism. It represents, to me, cutting through illusion and simply living in each moment; applying the principle of Occam's Razor to each and every act, each breath, each word.

You and me against the world?
Well, damn them folks to hell
who think that they're the passioned ones
and we've nothing to sell,
nor anything worth sharing
except grand ideas and talk;
I say, let's keep believing in ourselves
and walk the walk.

Who cares if they all shy away,
afraid to step outside
the narrow confines of their raising,
ignorance and pride?
The world is more than any of us
can hold in our hands;
I'd rather be thought a great fool
than say I understand.

So, you and me against the world?
There's not a better pair;
for both of us seek for the truth
that is out there, somewhere,
not in a single grain strewn on
some vast and endless beach,
but right here, where our feet are resting,
toes pressed each to each.

Let's do just as we please, my dear;
remember that the rest
will either think us quite insane
or bound for hell, at best.
So long as we've each other,
there's no telling what we'll do.
Let those who try to mock our joy
find their own scapegoats, too.

20 APR 2006

Yesterday, Starlight Dances and I took a road trip some 20 odd miles from Natchitoches to Marthaville, LA to visit the Rebel State Historic Site.

This idyllic spot is the home of the Grave of the Unknown Confederate Soldier, that is true. However, of more interest to me was the "Museum of Louisiana Country Music" housed on the same grounds. Here's their self description:

Set in the piney hills of northwestern Louisiana, the Louisiana Country Music Museum contains exhibits that tell the story of how various folk music traditions developed in this region--from early gospel and string band music to the country sounds we enjoy today. The museum, which depicts a stringed musical instrument in its architectural design, also honors the contributions of the many Louisiana natives who have become prominent in the country music and gospel music professions. There is a listening room and a library for those who wish to further explore the music, and a small theater is available for audio-visual shows or live presentations. The museum conducts outreach programs in schools, churches, service organizations and rest homes. Rebel SHS also encourages and invites all groups to visit Rebel for tours and picnics.

Now, let me begin by saying my visit was colored by a couple of factors. First, I had just read recently via my friend honkytonkdolly about the Grand Ole Opry's first star, DeFord Bailey. Second, I am something of a musicologist, as well as being an active musician whose interests lie in American roots music (including bluegrass, country, jazz, mountain music, old-time music, etc.). I live in Louisiana, and play country music. Ergo, the Lousiana Museum of Country Music should in some manner present the full circle from its humble beginnings (and aren't they all humble) to someone VERY much like me.

We'll begin by looking at a sepia-toned photograph of Hubie Leadbetter ("Leadbelly"). The placard informs me that he was "briefly incarcerated in the Lousiana Penitiary System". It does not say that he was a convicted murderer who was pardoned by a Louisiana governor.

I've been to a lot of museums. A lot. In dozens of states. In a few countries. While all museums, particularly those that focus on "historical artifacts", seem to have a kind of "hallowed dust" vibe to them, the MLCM brought this to a new level of "undisturbed". Looking through the five or six total exhibits in the museum, I can easily understand why so few modern performers of country music have any kind of connection with the past, or with their own roots. Who would encourage them to forge such a connection? The record companies? The attorneys? The managers? The radio station owners? Snakes don't like mothballs.

I suppose it was nice to see one of Hank Williams Jr.'s embroidered shirts. Or a Nudie suit worn by Charlie Louvin on the Grand Ole Opry. Or a picture of Doug Kershaw from the fifties looking a lot like Richie Cunningham with a bad haircuit plied with cheap goosegrease and a goofy grin on his face.

But this museum, like a lot of "history" museums, made me feel that its subject matter was dead. Granted, they do have concerts at the park, and things like the state harmonica and fiddle championships. But this place seemed like a tomb to the "good ol' days" with no sense of connection (other than an autographed shirt and hat from Trini Triggs) to the modern world, and to the fact that country music is STILL being played (albeit much differently than either Bill Monroe or the Carter Family probably envisioned).

The park was beautiful. The stage (where they have the championships and Saturday evening jam sessions and concerts) was very nice. It was quite relaxing to tool around under the piney woods looking for sassafras trees, wild violets, Louisiana irises and poison ivy. The company (stardances) was unbeatable and absolutely wonderful. She even found an Easter egg left over from Friday's Easter Egg hunt that the park put on for about 500 children.

But a museum? Dedicated to something I do, something I am? I was expecting a lot more.

First, it's a situation comedy. A situation comedy that deliberately offends some in order to humor others. That's not really so unusual. It's not really "teaching us to be tolerant," however. The majority of comedy has always been (since Euripides, anyway) based on belittling, verbally abusing, mocking and perjorating other people, their beliefs, their way of life, the way they talk; or finding glee in their misfortunes. Particularly people that you either don't know, don't like or are afraid you might somehow be associated with. I agree, you have a right to say what you like. But do you have a right to hurt other people with that speech? Isn't that really a form of hate speech? Or is it only hate speech if you or someone you like are the targets? In other words, did the burning of witches start with bonfires, or hateful, ignorant people striking matches while making fun of strange looking women digging along the roadside for medicinal herbs?

Second, it's a TELEVISION program. Granted, it may be about entertainment, or cultural commentary, even, but its first and foremost function is to serve as the delivery mechanism for advertisements. And if that delivery mechanism reduces the warm, fuzzy feeling in a percentage of consumers, it will not continue to be broadcast. It's not in the network's best interest to incur boycotts, protests, hate-mail or anything that might threaten its bottom line, or the inclination of its advertisers to continue their patronage.

Thirdly, I don't think it's free speech issue, and using the example of Jesus defecating on Bush and the flag as an "acceptable" substitute for an image of Mohammed doesn't prove the tolerance of Christianity over Islam regarding free expression. Suppose, instead, that they portrayed Jesus smoking a joint, fondling a transvestite prostitute and voting Democrat or attending a Klan rally (either one, both demonstrate extremes). THAT would have caused outrage. But the bulk of the South Park audience is probably in agreement with any of these scenarios as possible, if not probable; it's only people who don't GET the show (they would posit) that would be offended. But then again, that's where your definition of humor fits into the equation. Satire and irony are one thing. The question I have for South Park is this: could they have made their point without being offensive? Without belittling anyone? Who would have thought it was funny? The dilemma here what people think is funny. If it's not funny in a way that pushes the envelope, no one would watch, and the advertisers would suffer. On the other hand, if it's too funny (in a way that makes poignant insights into the way we live and suggests a better way), most people wouldn't get it, wouldn't watch, and the advertisers would suffers. And finally, if it's over-the-top top funny in the traditional belittling, mocking, smug way of most humor, someone's bound to get offended (because we all take ourselves a bit too seriously, anyway) and the advertisers suffer.

Is this worth even talking about?

The mockingbird sitting out in the oak tree
Is trying his whole repertoire out on me:
from bluebird to chickadee,
freight train to snake in the grass.

The afternoon's fading slow into the night
casting the back porch in dappled sunlight,
where substance and shadow each
dance while the moments go past.

Break out your banjo, that old mandolin;
I'll pull out my guitar and count us all in.
We'll start with some old ones
I'm sure we all know half way through.
Add in that fiddle and that tambourine;
settle in mellow. You know what I mean.
Just it flow, let it go for an hour or two...
play me some downhome and blue.

Pour you some coffee, or fresh lemonade;
find you a comfortable spot in the shade.
There's plenty of room on the porch
if everyone wants to sprawl.

The cool of the evening won't bother us none
once we're warmed up and the music's begun;
we'll heat up the night some, all right,
having ourselves a ball.

Break out your washboard, that old pair of spoons;
I'll pull out my dobro and start off a tune.
We'll start with some old ones
that maybe our grandfathers' knew.
Add in that fiddle, accordion too;
settle in mellow. You know what to do.
Just it flow, let it go for an hour or two...
play me some downhome and blue.

12 APR 2006

for Starlight Dances

What's your hurry? Take it slow.
We've got time, and don't you know:
there's no place else I've got to go;
take the phone off the hook for an hour or so.

No point rushing; we've got all night.
If it's worth the doing, it's worth doing right.
Let all those worries slip out of sight;
Relax, and don't try to fight it ...

Let me drive you a little bit crazy
with a love that's smooth and a little bit lazy;
let's lay back together and cruise a while ---
you and me, country style.

What's the hour? Who really cares?
Let's slip off and head upstairs.
The neighbors need not even be aware
about our afternoon affair.

No point racing; it's hot outside.
Let's slow down and make it more a pleasure ride.
The rest of the world can stay in overdrive.
Why rip and run when it's so fun to slide ...

Let me drive you a little bit crazy
with a love that's smooth and a little bit lazy;
let's lay back together and cruise a while ---
you and me, country style.

The work will always pile up, the calendar fill,
there'll always be a dish to wash, an unpaid bill,
a mountain to be made out of a little ol' hill;
but that can wait a little while. C'mon, let's chill ...

Let me drive you a little bit crazy
with a love that's smooth and a little bit lazy;
let's lay back together and cruise a while ---
you and me, country style.

11 APR 2006

The song I sing this morning is not new.
In fact, its birth predates even my own;
yet in between the phrases, now and then,
it's me, and not the tune, that you'll hear groan.

Why is this melody upon my lips
instead of some fresh fragment from the charts,
designed from sentimental, worn cliches
to motivate me and my shopping cart?

Because it has survived, the same as I,
despite the efforts of a younger set
who think of history as just passe,
and find their greatest talent, to forget.

The song I sing this morning, I once sang
as a young boy who'd just begun to dream
that this old world was more than it appeared,
and started peeking in between the seams.

What song will you be singing when we meet?
I hope it's one where I can sing along;
I'll share mine with you, if you'd care to try:
in harmony, it's twice as loud and strong.

11 APR 2006

What makes up a community,
if not those common threads
that make us not such strangers
and more interested, instead,

in how the other sees the world,
what makes a good friend tick.
To share the things that shape your life:
that's what makes friendship stick.

And who need know out and beyond
some wide, imagined fence,
besides the ones whose words you trust
with your experience?

If the result is my small pond
should teem with such big fish
that my wee boat seems less alone:
for what more could I wish?

09 APR 2006

What is there left to talk about?
The lines have all been drawn,
and leave us little common ground;
not much to dwell upon.

Why squirm in silence here together,
bound by social whim
to say not what is on our minds,
but delicately skim

around the ugly awful truth:
that you and I will not
agree on art or politics,
on legalizing pot,

on why it is that men and women
fulfill different roles,
what constitutes an act of war,
or what makes up the soul.

Excepting those fine topics,
we can speak on what you wish;
although I'm sure in time we'll find
other taboos to list.

What is there left to talk about?
Why meet here at the fence
pretending that we give a damn?
I'd prefer an honest silence.

08 APR 2006

What do I care? They're only words,
flung out in speech like careless pearls;
it's not as if they can raise boils
or lay an endless, babbling curse.

Oh, wait; that's not entirely true.
For in the Celtic lands, the bard
could with their words alone transform
a thing in such a way.

What do I care? Those bards are dead;
were their pale spirits gathered here,
each duly armed with sticks and stones,
I doubt they'd raise a bruise.

Well, wait; I'd like to take that back,
and years of useless, pointless talk
avoiding one small, simple truth;
that your own words can hurt you.

07 APR 2006

My girlfriend saw it first: against the railing
that runs along the length of the back porch,
a greyish shadow slipping from the steps,
behind the potted plants toward the light.

As it began to turn toward the back door
I brought the dull blade down upon its neck,
my body a safe hoe's length stretched out from it;
it coiled to strike until its sense was dulled.

But even then, until its head was severed,
it seemed to flex in warning; and its jaws
had fixed themselves on a deck plank, and hung on
as if that anchor could prevent its death.

Tonight, as we drag on our smokes, the porch lights
are on full blast; our eyes keen on the rail
that separates the deck from yard and woodland,
the border of our cottonmouth patrol.

06 APR 2006

The songs that filled my boyhood time are gone,
their melodies have faded with the years;
and all my vain attempts to sing along
have left only their skeletons, and tears.

Mere shadows take their place, as mummers' tunes,
their substance lost to darkness and neglect;
and now, like worn-down tracings on old runes,
they hide their meaning and demand respect.

You hear their traces, sometimes, on the wind,
or in an imitation from a bird,
and then some noise intrudes and once again
they fade. To chase them thither seems absurd.

What songs are these that so enthralled a boy?
The anthems of a world embracing joy.

05 APR 2006

There's a hole in the levee where my city used to be
and there's talk of the future in the papers, on TV
but the truth of the matter is quite obvious to see
nothing's gonna be the way it used to be

Some still say that the water washed away some evil sin
and that God cleansed the palette so that He could start again
but the truth of the matter is not hard to comprehend:
it's the end of our longing to pretend.

No one should ever be so poor that they should need rely
on folks that really don't care if they live or if they die.
Whatever dream we started on has shriveled up and dried
still waiting for the haves to all decide
the cost to let New Orleans die.

There's a hole in the levee and the money's pouring out
into the Gulf of Mexico and points much further south
while those with lots of nothing figure what to live without
and watch the nonsense that comes from
the politicians' mouths

Some blame the federal government while others blame the state;
still others, the Big Easy's leaders; a few, they blame fate.
The truth, though, is quite simple: far too little, far too late,
and denying it is to prevaricate.

No one should ever be so poor that they should need rely
on folks that really don't care if they live or if they die.
Whatever dream we started on has shriveled up and dried
still waiting for the haves to all decide
the cost to let New Orleans die.

From this, let little people take a lesson they can use.
you think we're all together, well, just watch the evening news:
you're out there in the undertown, and others get to choose;
remember, when the chips are down
the house will let you lose.

04 APR 2006

Standing in the echo of the last show's fading note,
wondering through the night about the last song that I wrote:
the one that drew a line and put me on the other side;
was that what we both wanted, or was it just foolish pride?

I wouldn't be so worried if there was some way to know
how long that it might take before I stop loving you so;
see, I can handle heartache and a lot of misery,
but it would make it so much easier thinking it will only be ...

Seven days and fourteen hours and twenty seconds more
until you come back to your senses and are standing at that door
with a handful of good reasons, each one worth the staying for.
I may not know too much, but I know now that you've been gone
seven days and fourteen hours and ten seconds too long.

Listening to the raindrops fall against the windowpane,
running through the last things that we said, time and again;
every word seems like an echo slowly fading with the night
that takes with it the good we had as it slips out of sight.

I wouldn't care so much if I was more sure that we had
enough of the good times to outweigh what we know was bad;
but we got out of balance somewhere there toward the end.
I know it's for the better, but I also know it's been

Seven days and fourteen hours and twenty seconds more
since you came to your senses and walked straight out that front door
with a handful of good reasons, each one worth your leaving for.
I may not know too much, but I know now that you've been gone
seven days and fourteen hours and ten seconds too long.

In the arsenal of love, the deadliest of tools
is memory, that brings down both the wise man and the fool,
and over time, serves to remind us where we went astray
by keeping in our minds the worst mistakes we ever made

and now it's ...

Seven days and fourteen hours and twenty seconds more
until you come back to your senses and are standing at that door
with a handful of good reasons, each one worth the staying for.
I may not know too much, but I know now that you've been gone
seven days and fourteen hours and ten seconds too long.

1 APR 2006