Wil--with one L
It was raining the day I met you
a six-stringed philosopher
Tilted-your chair leaned precariously
Decked out in musty flannel
And dirty tennis shoes
your voice spoke
Crackling rusticity
Reeking of Virginia mountains
And small country radio stations
Your voice as much an instrument
As the second-hand guitar
You carted around
It's resonance
giving testimony to your
carpenter's call
While Old Grand Dad kept us awake
with bourban dreams
Tears and bags of microwave popcorn
Never felt easy with you
Always a challenge to be your friend
And take the critical eye
So I'll remember you with my ponytail
Instead of songs or back porch confessions
You always said
I was deeper than that
It was raining the day I met you
a six-stringed philosopher
Tilted-your chair leaned precariously
Decked out in musty flannel
And dirty tennis shoes
your voice spoke
Crackling rusticity
Reeking of Virginia mountains
And small country radio stations
Your voice as much an instrument
As the second-hand guitar
You carted around
It's resonance
giving testimony to your
carpenter's call
While Old Grand Dad kept us awake
with bourban dreams
Tears and bags of microwave popcorn
Never felt easy with you
Always a challenge to be your friend
And take the critical eye
So I'll remember you with my ponytail
Instead of songs or back porch confessions
You always said
I was deeper than that
posted by McDizzle at 4/02/2006 08:41:00 PM
4 Comments:
It is interesting how that poem has changed with a decade or so worth of rumination.
You're a lovely fucker, McD.
You took my advice and didn't compromise your work. Nice work McD! I am pleased. Not that you care how i feel about your work. Nonetheless, i am pleased.
RGS
”I see Him as the Lone Prophet,”
These are words I agree with.
“He is the elder, the old soul
That we admire… that we are drawn to.”
His is a singular soul,
One that we fear,
He is the Leader, the Teacher,
That we fear to accept.
“His emotion is too pure,”
According to others,
Too rich in reality,
Too hard to discuss.
Your knowledge superceeds
Your presence,
How odd to be worshiped
By an unknown.
JB & BF
I'm compelled to share here the version of the poem you gave me a couple of years ago:
A six-stringed philosopher
Tilted--your chair
leans precariously
It was raining the day I met you
decked out in musty flannel
and dirty tennis shoes
You greeted me with
Crackling rusticity
your voice spoke West Virginia
small country radio stations
reeking of broadcast
You sang of heartache and angry
Women
The rapture, big black dogs--
While Old Grand Dad kept us awake
with bourbon dreams
Tears and bags of microwave popcorn
As we healed ourselves
Your Voice as much an instrument
as the second hand guitar
you carted around--
Its resonance giving testimony
to your carpenter's call
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