Ö¿Ö - ok. more about my fren. i read this at his wake:
a woman walks into the bar
hands the bartender a note
bartender says to his patrons,
butch moss is dead, that's all she wrote
SHE SHOULDA WROTE MORE! said godzilla
BRING HER TO ME AND I'LL FIGHT HER!
well maybe she shoulda, the bartender said
but she isn't a very good writer
she coulda said, i'm sorry
he was really a wonderful guy
or i hope i don't upset anyone
or make anybody cry
but noooooo. she didn't, godzilla went on
her heart must be cold and flat
butch moss is dead? that's all she wrote?
YOU'D THINK HE DESERVED MORE THAN THAT!
she never mentioned his brother
or ian or winter or ME
or any of the women he loved
see how damn cold she must be?
she didn't say why he died
or when... or where... or how
or if he suffered in dying
or where his body is now
she just came in with that message
she slid it across the bar
and before we could ask any questions
she danced away on a star
nobody knows who the girl was
if she even knew the man
did she know that he was an artist
with a masterpiece in his hands?
some say that we're here to learn lessons
but there was nothing that moss didn't know
i'm telling you this cuz i asked him once
and he told me that, yes, this was so
i asked him, then what is your job
if learning is not why you're here?
butch said his job was expressing his elf
under the FLEW-ence of beer
my friend is gone with no goodbye
a stranger delivers the news
she isn't a very good writer
and she can't even sing us the blues
she drags her ass into the bar
hands the bartender a note
she leaves before the message is read
butch moss is dead, that's all she wrote
READ IT AGAIN! somebody shouts
there HAS to be more in that note
bartender reads and shakes his head
BUTCH MOSS IS DEAD, that's all she wrote
i am not a poet. slap me if i ever try to write verse again.
truth is, the guy was an insecure know-it-all... talked only about himself and his accomplishments most of which were exaggerations or outright lies. he was a real bore to be around. he was insensitive and rude... he was a very good golfer, better than i, better than most, but he NEVER played as well as he said he did. he was so vain (or insecure) that he only recorded his best rounds and could never play to his handicap in a tournament. he was a world class sculptur but chose to paint on canvas instead (horribly) in his last few years. he was dismissed, disliked and looked down upon by many.
we'd been accidental friends through the worst and best of each other's lives - high school, draft resistance, haight ashbury, college, ROTC, the night streets of juarez bars and prostitutes, psychedelics, friend's and parent's deaths, children's births, football games, divorces, endless golfing, DWI arrests and family heartaches.
sometimes we would go into the mountains for a weekend to camp and drink beer and talk about leaving everything and driving a jeep to tierra del fuego together... his facade would melt away because he knew that i knew his inner child... and he would cry and BE that child for a moment and the lies and exaggerations would stop, frozen in their imaginary tracks. those were the best of times. for some people, god's touch of true love is only tiny fleeting sweet flashes in a long and arduous journey through endless struggles. i'm glad i shared those flashes with him.
he worshiped me and told everyone i was his best friend. and BY GOD, I WAS and i'm not embarrassed to say, "he was mine... and i loved him."
-polvie |
