I have a nightmare. We are all asleep
in our house. The barn has settled down with the pigs and horses
nodding off. In the field next to the barn, the cows are grazing. The
moon is full. In the distance a fire is raging. And heading toward
us. I told John about my dream. 'If there was a fire, the dogs would
be a howling.' In my next nightmare the dogs were howling.
I didn't die. I woke up in the box.
Startled and then bored. But remarkably comfortable. I started to
think about my ideas and realized in a flash that I had been wrong.
But where? A life's work become vapor. That didn't sit right with me.
At virtually the same time there was a tremendous thunderstorm. From
inside the box, it sounded like Ludwig van. I could hear the clashing
of the large drums and the blaring of horns and the crescendo of
duelling violins. And then a flood . That swept my coffin down a fast
moving river until I became lodged in some high reeds. A beautiful
young woman named Imelda saw my coffin, opened it up. And so I arose.
Ah, I said to myself, I have become Moses.
Blood
in the fountains. Is black. Ropes dripping from trees. Are red.
Whispers in bar rooms. Electric lights flickering. Someone is getting
the chair. Jesus breaths. His last. Again. Some call it justice. Some
call it the Mississippi rain.
So
many men planting holes. In other men’s flesh. Too much stupidity.
Too much vulgarity. Too much nothing. Nina wanted to crawl. Into the
microphone. The world is mad. Like a mongrel dog. Snarling. At the
end of a chain.She
could smell the bitch's breath. Some call it law and order. Some call
it death.
Running.
From the black wolves. Of night. Driving her car through the mad
narrow French avenues. I
tell you. Everyone is going to die. Such a shame. Wouldn’t it be
lovely, to do this all over again?
After Nina died they took her ashes. Out onto the verandah. And
scattered her laughter. Over the African savannah.
A
letter on the vanity. Next to the talc and brandy. A shadow standing
in the corner. A stocking flung over his shoulder. A cigarette in his
fingers. Looking back with a smile on her face. Some kind of
disruption behind.
The
Chesterfield Supper Club. Radio Show. Dinner served with laughs. A
lot of coughing. Love curled up in a purse. Jo Stafford. Entertainee.
Perfect pitch. She could have played for the Yankees.
Old
sailors no longer get their pants pressed. And the fleet is sleeping.
In the noon day shade. The dust has settled. The war was won. And the
retirement homes are run. By government men. Dying of congestive
heart failure. Jo Stafford wept. First love would not come again.
Glenn
Taylor. Such a tall man. Idaho Senator. Arrested in Birmingham.
Alabama. For walking through a door. Marked "for Negroes".
Watch the fog set over the harbour. A flash of light. Observed on the
moon. A spotlight. On the stage. And a beautiful blond. Singing
goodbye. Jo Stafford died. At age 90.
Ethel
Waters (October 31, 1896 – September 1, 1977)
Look
at the sun. Pouring. Through the branches of that tree. Like Ethel.
Dragged around like a rag doll. Through the swamp. The smell of giant
tupelo and bald cypress. At
13. Ethel was given away. Like a second hand kitchen chair. To a
big barrel of a man. Ass three blocks wide. F***ed her for fun. Beat
her when he got bored. He left. She was left. To fend for herself.
Sometimes it seems. You don't recognize love. Until its gone.
President
Truman increased. The minimum wage. From 40 cents to 75. J Edgar
Hoover gave Shirley Temple. A tear gas fountain pen. Ethel was
jealous. Her lover cheated. With heroin. And left her early one morn.
He went to Europe to find his soul. Ethel went to San Francisco. The
best things in life should be put on a list. And number one.
Happiness is a fist.
Ethel
worked as a maid. 9
until unconsciousness.
Sang in whorehouses. The smell of semen. And stale beer. And late
night confessions. Worked the black vaudeville circuit. Mostly for
food and gange. Found Jesus. Hanging in a big tent. Next to a trailer
park. Oh how she envied the Catholics. Who could forget about all
their sins. And laugh at the son tumbling out of his tree.
