A drunk piano player sits alone upon the bench And his words are slurred together, but message all makes sense He prophesies while a full glass lies safely in his right hand The world spins then once again rests his head upon the Grand As he wipes away the dribble from his world-weary mouth The smell of whiskey fills the air, before his lips spout out, “All our tears o’er the years are kept in a jar in God’s overcoat; His breath, it makes every snowflake to give us sinner’s hope He tips the Mason jar, his right hand full of grace His speech sways the saline, each to its sacred space Water crystallizes into forms all unique Like the souls of those children who cried themselves to sleep In catacombs, I stray alone because I long to be afraid Valley of bones, I call you home, safe from what my hands have made Like stars pretending to still be alive An apparition of the glory that once gave birth to light I am a skeleton of the man that once had life” His words break the silence, hands slam upon the keys The notes of discordance bring the world to its knees The soothsayer sings of future things too great to be known Of gnashing teeth and endless grief and ungodly moans He sings, “A piccolo is playing the dirge for the dead And soldiers sigh where angels fear to tread Creation kneels while the devil steals the crown of the earth He masquerades in a clownish parade as the world awaits rebirth A harvest of hemlock! For every girl and boy! Let us mourn for our fathers and the fall of Mother Troy The peace of childhood seems deluded naïveté And if ignorance is bliss, growing dumb sure seems heavenly Am I to blame for the blue-black flame that burns in place of my eyes? What life is this? As if I exist to count shells where once were lives Take a drink from the bottle of prosperity Before the damning dark of disbelief Removes the veil off our eyes to see the world’s plea for mercy The moon is turned to blood and the world is full of fright The atheistic priests commiserate over pints Rasputin sings while Jezebel brings a word from the Lord Babies they weep while their mothers sleep, hands a-ready at the sword Glory falls from the clouds and luminescence swallows sight Everyone is blinded; everyone has seen the light Satan rants while children dance, lamb and lion reconcile The Son of Man, He takes the hand of every singing child The prophet he falls, the patrons all go home The world still spins, the world she still groans The bartender asks, “Where have all the good men gone? Where have all the good men gone? Are we left here all alone? No finality and no direction home? Where, o where, did we all go wrong?”
Archive for May, 2008
Julio, How I Love Thee
What does a world look like without Julio Franco playing major league baseball? I have no frame of reference. Julio, my favorite player of all-time, retired a little over a week ago at the ripe old age of 49. He’d been playing pro ball since 1982, two years before I, a COLLEGE GRADUATE, was even born. He played for nine major league teams, made three all-star teams, amassed around 4200 hits (if you include his time abroad), was the oldest player ever to hit a grand slam and the oldest player to hit a home run, was the last player to face a pitcher who’d faced Ted Williams, and countless other feats. ESPN Page 2 recently posted an article about the amazing Julio, the one-time party animal turned indescribably-disciplined born-again Christian.
Josh Ritter (with Ingrid Michaelson opening)- Bottletree- Birmingham, AL 5/4/08