The Dead Guy Song

Soon you'll hear these words from a friend that you never knew.
I know you from her grief, I wish it was from her peace.

I want to dance with you,
I want to sing with you,
I want to laugh with you.

Your life was hard, your life was so filled with pain
But your love was the laughter, that taught her how to laugh and love.

I want to dance with you,
I want to sing with you,
I want to laugh with you.

She cries from her heart, she cries through the night for you.
Oh to be there just to see her eyes when she sees your face.

I want to dance with you,
I want to sing with you,
I want to laugh with you.

Angels Unawares

Anyone who has ever taken a walk through the University District of Seattle, or down along the water has met these people. The locals will tell you to walk faster and to never join them in conversation.

They are in sales. They must be in sales because many of them are so good at it. I have often wondered why they are not working. You find yourself slipping easily into comfortable conversation and realize that you have a new walking companion who is very interested in how you are doing, if your family is well, where you bought that shirt, could you help out with a cup of coffee, maybe breakfast because they haven't eaten in a while. Or they have run out of gas and need to get to the eastern side of the state in time for their daughter's surgery. They have children in the car not three blocks away and they need food.

But mostly their stories have numerous aspects, any one of which would be quite believable on its own. Confused, cold, hungry and probably chemically altered in one way or another, their pitch pours forth with all of their best efforts jumbled together in a plea for help that pours forth as common conversation; no more than their daily duty.

The locals are correct. If you answer even one quick question, the hook is set and fight as you might to free yourself, you will only cut this line with cash. Then as quickly as your new best friend found you, she is gone with a "God bless you Sir," off to plead for help from the next soft hearted Christian visitor to the city. Playing on their dim witted sense of charity and personal piety.

I wondered, one day as I was being fleeced, how many of them are exactly what they seem to be and how many are visitors from far away. You see, I also engage in a fair amount of dim witted superstition. When do I allow myself to be taken, scammed and conned and how many times, by doing so, have I given a quick cup to Jesus or one of His companions. Maybe never, probably never. . . never. Would it make any difference? Is that why I do it? Would Jesus Himself accept help from me if He knew that I knew it was Him? Wouldn't such discrimination actually make the act null and void? It wouldn't count would it?

Maybe I need to not know so it will count. But wait a minute, why would it have to count? And count for what? So it counts and I have kept perfect score. Jesus comes and I proudly proclaim, "Lord Lord! Look at all the good I did for these street people. Ain't I great?" I'd smile as I polish up my pretentious piety.

But Jesus looks rather disgusted, almost ill.

I know how I feel in the presence of self righteous bastards, would he feel any less put off?

Maybe one day I will stop trying to figure it all out from my stupid, selfish, superstitious perspective. Maybe someone just needs a cup of coffee after a normally hard night. Maybe it's enough that they are just people. Oh sure, probably lazy, alcoholic, drug addicted people but maybe these need a little food too. Maybe making points with Jesus hasn't got much of anything to do with it.

Maybe I'm not the great man that I pretend to be. Maybe it just doesn't matter. Here's a ten.

Good morning Sir, that's a very fine coat and you're a very handsome man.
Do you live 'round here, do you live in town or have you come from far away?
The morning sun really hurts my eyes do you mind if I don't look up?
I will sing my songs I will sing for you, only pay for the ones you like.

I'm feeling so old and ugly
Afraid nobody's gonna love me
Feelin' so old and ugly
Afraid nobody's gonna want me

A friend of a friend told man who's a friend that I'm sure to get my break.
Gonna sing for him at the deli shop do you think I could get ten bucks?
I'll lift up my shirt and I'll show you what I've got, that's the Virgin Mary right there.
I pierced this one so's to tell them apart, you don't mind me showing you?

I'm feeling so old and ugly
Afraid nobody's gonna love me
Feelin' so old and ugly
Afraid nobody's gonna want me

You're looking rather distant like my heart's not really in it, I'm not from 'round here myself.
I'll read your cards, maybe listen to your troubles, I sleep sometimes at Gwen's.
Long journey from Seattle all the way on down to LA caught a ride about half way back
My feet are kinda tired, your eyes are really nice, could we sit down here and rest?

Feel'n so old and ugly
Afraid nobody's gonna love me
Feelin' so old and ugly
Afraid no body's gonna want me

You walk on the wrong side, walk right here, don't believe me ask my dad.
But that's OK have a very nice day, you don't know how much this helps.

Lady From Last Winter

I ran across a line in a book the other day that stated a fact that I think rarely receives much thought. "More write poetry than read poetry." It is probably true. While going through my mother's belongings a few weeks ago I learned that, not only did she read a considerable quantity of literature, she composed volumes of poetry and opinion.
I wonder how many of us are closet poets. I think most of us probably attempted feebly in our youth when hormones focused our attention on that certain someone. But inevitably the inability to iron out clunky prose, the refocus of life brought on by embarrassment at our inability, and a certain coping mentality which caused us to put away the writing as being something silly or immature, turned us away from something that opened doors in our psyche that nothing else has been able to match. At times a song or a reading comes close to reopening that area of the heart but with instant resolve it is quickly dismissed.
So, I am going out on a limb here and will publish original works that have been used as lyric to original musical attempts.
Enjoy them if you are able.
This mornings piece is called "Lady From Last Winter"

Good morning,
Who are you?
I don't recognize your number and it's three AM.
Good morning,
You're texting,
A dream so full of color that you can't pretend.

Maybe it's the Lady from last winter.
I drove so many miles just to say hello.
Maybe it's the Lady from last winter.
I had a certain feeling, now I just don't know.

Good morning,
I need coffee.
I need to find my glasses to read these lines from you.
Good morning,
I'm with you.
I'm here all by myself and I've been dreaming too.

Maybe it's the Lady from last winter.
I thought I'd like to know her but she had a friend.
Maybe it's the Lady from last winter.
I really think I love her should I try again?