Poets or The honky tonk is burning. I think I was in it.

I am incredibly hungover. I was out way to late. And said things beyond the situation. It was a good show and when everyone left and it was just the usual kids at the bar things got a little crazy. Patron was poured. Beer was freely given. And I absorbed it all, including a little abuse. So here are some reflections on art. I do not get enough of it my life, kinda like sobriety.
I have none few artists in my life. I have known even fewer talented ones. I am lucky enough to say that I know two (with varying degrees of intimacy).
The first is my NYC via Tx friend E. His words are very concise even though sometimes the seem to meander. His pictures devastate me on occasion. Luckily I do not believe he reads this blog or else he would probably scoff, giggle and ask, "What does that mean?" I am not sure what it means. He is always saying something. Here is a picture from his blog. I think about him often.

The other poet I know is a dude named Ben Nichols. Watched him do a solo show last night. He also happened to be the guy passing at Patron shots. He took his shirt off. He plays with a band called Lucero. Here is a song he wrote.

I do not know him as well as E. He was kind enough to help me find my glasses at a show at the Bowery Ballroom. That is the kind of thing you do not forget.

It turns out that my home state produced another poet. His name is Frank Stanford. He shot himself three times in the heart at the age of 29. He died as a result. He wrote a poem called The Battlefield Where The Moon Says I Love You." Here are some lines from that poem:

tonight the gars on the trees are swords in the hands of knights
the stars are like twenty-seven dancing russians and the wind
is I am waving goodbye to the casket of my first mammy
well that black cadillac drove right up to your front door
and the chauffer was death
he knocked on the screen he said come on woman let’s take a ride
he didn’t even give you time to spit he didn’t even let you
take the iron out of your hair
you said his fingernails was made out of water moccasin bones
and his teeth was hollow he was a eggsucker
you said he reached up under your dress and got the nation sack
you said the conjure didn’t work he didn’t smell the salt in your shoes
you said he came looking for you and you hid out in the out house you waited
for him with a butcher knife you asked him why not
let the good times roll
you wasn’t studying about kicking no bucket
his tongue was a rattlesnake those sunglasses death wore
I was talking to the pew of deacons they had white gloves on
a midget collected ears on a piece of bob wire
the black dog lifted his leg on the hubcap
the wagon load of boots and banners was dumped in the bayou
the chain gang drowned together in the flood
the disguised butterfly
the quivering masts when the hero returns
one came on horseback with the enchanted sword in the hands of the father
the magician comes into the grand court and his head is lopped off by the boy
so the father comes back and knights his son with three strokes on the shoulder
this was the accolade of noblemen the investiture by the magical father
the bridge burnt up the tent and the ladder and the piano are on fire I saw them
after the funeral a drunk peckerhead pulled a pistol on daddy
mother had a double bit axe just in case but daddy kicked his teeth in
if his head was cut off it wouldn’t grow back he wasn’t a knight he was trash
the pecker had cooties
a blind fisherman used clorox jugs he use to be Mama Covoe’s man
he gets snuff on the harp I play it like when I kiss her on the lips
and she is dipping snuff she is dead
to put it out they rolled it down the bank the night crawlers
the honkytonky is burning
the piano under the water looks like a shark
O.Z. stuck a ice pick in his knee