Tag Archives: flirting

Lucky Number

I’m thinking about the Bakersfield sound, and a song by Merle Haggard in particular — “I Must Have Been Somebody Else You’ve Known”, which as far as I can tell is only available in a version by the International Submarine Band (Gram Parsons’ outfit pre-Sweetheart of the Rodeo and Flying Burritos). Thinking about Buck Owens, too, and that brother act / close harmony from Appalachia married with Western Swing, and also thinking about how lucky I am to be in the relationship I’m in — a gamble that has paid off in dividends beyond my wildest imagination.

For my lucky number (#25)

Love’s always been a lottery as far as I’m concerned
You lay your money down, you roll the dice, and you get burned
A sure thing Friday night’s all right ’til Sunday comes around
And you find out the race was fixed; one more lost weekend down.

Where lady luck’s concerned I’ve struck out nearly every time
My credit’s gone to hell and I’m down to my last worn dime
While other guys get lucky I’m the one shot down in flames
But I’m back every weekend just the same …

I’m hoping that you’ll be my lucky number, ’cause I’ve got everything I own on you.
You’ve got all my wheels spinning, feels like I just might be winning
and my losing streak will finally break in two.
I’m hoping that you’ll be my lucky number, and that I’ll end ahead this time around;
Oh, seven come eleven, won’t you be my slice of heaven
and I’ll end my gambling ways and settle down.

Love’s always been a game of chance where all the money cards
seem to escape my hand, my plans die fast and they die hard;
A solid bet on some coquette turns into morning rain
A fleeting song, goodbye, so long and I’m alone again

Where passion sparks, my matches are soaked through with bitter tears
I’m left holding a worthless stub when the racetrack is cleared
While other guys are finding love they probably don’t deserve
I’m at the low end of the romance curve …

I’m hoping that you’ll be my lucky number, ’cause I’ve got all my hopes tied up in you.
You’ve got all my wheels spinning, feels like I might be winning
and this losing streak I’m on will soon be through.
I’m hoping that you’ll be my lucky number, and that I’ll hit the jackpot finally;
Oh, seven come eleven, won’t you be my slice of heaven
get lucky with a poor gambler like me.

19 DEC 2005

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One More Man

If I could never be the one
to make you smile like you say he may have done
Then why do you always seem to run
to me?

If I could never take his place
to bring that smile you lost back to your face
Then why do you always seem to race
here to me?

Maybe it’s just something that I’ll never understand
Maybe it’s your mystery that makes me give a damn
All that I can offer is to try the best I can
After all, I’m only one more man
who loves you.

If I could never be enough
to help you through when the times start getting tough
Then why do you always seem to need me
to back your your bluff?

If I could never understand
just what it takes to be your lover man
Then why do you always seem to stand
so close to me?

When you call me, what are you expecting me to say?
I will be your shoulder when you cry.
When you hold me close and whisper “what is there to do?”
What is it you want me to reply?

Maybe it’s just something that I’ll never understand
Maybe it’s your mystery that makes me give a damn
All that I can do for you is try the best I can
but after all, I’m only one more man
who loves you.

Just another hopeless, foolish man
who loves you.


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Let the great bells resound

The endless poise of would-be suitors
waiting in the wings
who watch in silence for some signal
that Beauty’s watchman brings

The darkened tower above the chasm
where maidservants kneel
in service to some kind of madness
Beauty seems to feel

The empty halls of empty armor
memories of campaigns
that sought to prove the end of fighting;
the hallowed hills refrain:

There is no use in wishful thinking;
time is much better spent
constructing moats of spider’s webs
or building tissue tents.

The tuneless song of untrained cantors
humming in the halls
who write their programs for recital
on the crumbling walls

The lamplight study of the martyr,
dagger to his breast,
who writes in tears his testament
while visions manifest

The quiet hush of the new morning
creeping from the moor
that serves as a forged invitation,
turned back at the door

There is no point in dialogue
when ears are closed to sound;
let loose the time saved for such things,
let the great bells resound

1 JUN 2005

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Memorial Day 1994

Once upon a time (which so many of us assume is in the past, but could very well be the future) in a coffee shop far, far away (so far, in fact, it might be considered to be in Memphis, Tennessee) on a Sunday that was confused about its own self-image, seeing how it had become devalued by being sandwiched in the middle, between the bookends, so to speak, of a three-day weekend commemorating the inconsistent foreign policy of a barely toilet-trained democracy, a young man named Gravity Pushman, who was an anarchist comedian who moonlighted as a itinerant philosopher/busboy/ panhandler/candidate for the U. S. Senate, sat with a girl who met a Crown Victoria coming out of a Circle K parking lot who dreamt of being a mental case and thereby receiving special treatment from people who assume that they are not (crazy, that is). Like most men of mice and plan, it (the situation, that is) was better laid than executed, which might be considered a moral judgment regarding the penal (or penile) system of the above-stated Greek resurrected Frankenstein monster, but since there are no givens in the above equation, one can never tell. We were speaking of executions and putting our words into action by killing time, which Aleister Crowley affirms is the only real measure of our lifespans that we are aware of, and therefore, if you love life you mustn’t waste it.

“You know what your problem is,” he said, running an Ohio Blue Tip against the floor of the porch and putting the flame to the cigarette at his lips, “your problem is that you just cannot hang; whereas I can hang, do hang, am hanging, and probably will hang at some time in the future, for a crime I could not or shall not have committed, having been sentenced to meet the hangman’s daughter by a jury of my peers in accordance with the laws of the state and the dictates of moral society and quite possibly by the whim of several species of television-weaned autosuggestible mass consumers of misinformation on the basis of circumstantial evidence, or through the influence of outward pressures upon the existent legal system, or perhaps even through the whim of that particular doctor of jurisprudence who in his closing remarks to said jury will imply that although the proof is more in the pudding, there is no pudding like a Jello pudding pop, and ergo, primae facie, habeas corpus, pop goes the weasel.”

“You know I’m not as smart as you,” she said, “I can’t keep up with you.”

“That’s why the humans are a race,” he responded, “and all other things are species or breeds or varieties. They seem to think it’s something to be won, either by being the most fleet of foot or by answering the right question at the right time with the right intention in the right tone of voice under the right conditions to receive the right response.”

“What if,” she broke in, “what if the right wing was really the left wing, and the left wing was really the right?”

He paused for a minute to think, flicking the ash from the end of his cigarette. “You’d still have to cut the breast three ways,” he answered, “the only difference would be that the wishbone would be the funny bone.”

Thinking, hoping, and perhaps even praying that someday she might be clever, she responded in the interrogative (which she could comprehend on certain levels on certain days in certain company during certain conversations, but would be hard pressed to spell, whereas since his experience as a runner-up in the Hardin County, Ohio spelling bee at the age of eight gave him an incredible grasp of useless things such as spelling, he would have been glad to say ‘interrogative’ i-n-t-e-r-r (or maybe ‘double r’) o-g-a-t-i-v-e ‘interrogative’), saying, “Funny ha-ha, funny weirdstrange, funny intelligent, funny odd, or funny indigenous poor people exchanged for funny trees made into funny pulp print in funny papers read by funny exploitationalists passing funny money in a funny farm nursing home for the insane society?”

“You know those times when you think you’re funny,” he retorted, “when you think you’re funny, but you’re not?”

I know,” she interrupted, “this is one of them.”

“If there is hope,” he continued, “its candle might just be burning for you. Don’t get too excited, however, or the exhaust from your deep breathing, soul-searching, self-help administrating, inner-child spoiling exercises just might be enough to put us all in total darkness, which was, of course, where Moses was when the lights went out.”

“Your mother,” she responded, “must be a saint. I just can’t see how any one could put up with you.”

“All I can say to that,” he laughed, “is this: too bad it wasn’t Eddie Vedder.”

MAY 1994

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