Monthly Archives: November 2005

Kris Kristofferson

Light up another cigarette, crack open one more beer
Let’s drink to those who lived and ended up with a career
Who suffered the indignity of having their gold panned
Who didn’t end up dying quite as young as they had planned

Light up another cigarette, and pour out one more round
Let’s drink to those whose wasted years are not yet underground
Who suffered the injustice of not suffering enough
Who didn’t end up dying to send their record sales up

Can you still be a martyr to a cause that no one knows,
a prophet in your own home town, a sheep dressed in wolves’ clothes,
if they all know you struggled, but still managed to survive
playing double sets in some old, empty dives?

Light up another cigarette, line up another shot
Let’s drink to those poor devils that the critics have forgot
Who didn’t spend their short, sweet lives in angst-inducing pain
Who stayed on at the grindstone and instead lived on in vain.

Light up another cigarette, tap that last pony keg
Let’s drink to those who carried on, and had to learn to beg
Who suffered in the shadows, while some comets came and went
Who paid the tab when others left, their money still unspent.

Can you still be a martyr in obscurity, unknown,
if your splash isn’t big enough, if your death cult hasn’t grown,
if they see you still living, and assume you haven’t cried
as much as those brave legends who all died?

Light up another cigarette, and fill up one more glass
Let’s drink to those whose lives are more than a grand epitaph
Who pay the price for living by pretending not to die
Who write the songs we all sing when the caskets roll on by.

27 NOV 2005

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My Reality

She’s no human interest story
torn from some eighteen point headline in the times;
she offers no redemption or salvation
to the readers of these lines,
like those miles that you fly over
as you run from one place to the next:
just as likely to get ridicule
as an ounce of understanding or respect.

But she is a friend of mine:
about half sinner and half saint;
and over the time we’ve shared
I can say I’ve no complaints.
Not trying to prove herself
to anyone, including me;
just living the best she can,
starring in my reality.

She’s not fodder for the tabloids,
the dark underbelly of some fallen star;
she offers no cash value or big prize,
no dream vacation or new car,
just a moment among millions
lost in the unending carnival of time:
just as likely to be overlooked
as noticed in the express grocery line.

But she is a friend of mine:
about half sour, the other sweet;
and in the balance that’s somehow struck,
I can say my life’s complete.
Not trying to change herself
for anyone, including me;
just living the best she can,
starring in my reality.

She’s no drama queen or actress
cast against type to improve a Nielson share;
she doesn’t seek the spotlight
or spend all her time imagining it’s there.
Just one more grown-up girl from Stonewall,
who’s been out beyond the dark edges of town
and found what makes life worth living:
growing through both up and down.

And she is a friend of mine:
about half crazy, and half sane;
that fits the way I am completely,
I have no reason to complain.
Not trying to prove her worth
to anyone, including me;
just being the one I want
starring in my reality.

27 NOV 2005

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So Long (This Time So Long)

I’ll leave the light on outside
so you can find your way when you come home tonight
I don’t know where you’ve been,
but I ain’t asking, I know I don’t have the right

Besides, it’s just another passing evening
You’re passing by those bright lights
searching for one to believe in
If you don’t find it here
I guess you finally will be leaving
Like you wanted to so many times before
Guess I’ll lie awake until I know for sure.

If you get home before morning
lock the door and turn the light out in the hall
Use the phone out in the kitchen
if there’s someone out there that you need to call

It’s not like this don’t happen every evening
We’re past the point of all of that,
ain’t no one been deceived here
If you don’t come home soon,
I guess you’ll call and say you’re leaving
Like I thought you would a thousand times ago
Guess I’ll lie awake until I finally know.

This time of night
gets longer every minute
When I look across the bed
and I can see you’re still not in it
I hope that nothing’s wrong …
it’s just it’s been so long, this time
so long this time
guess it’s so long, this time
so long

I’ll leave some supper on the stove
so you’ll have something waiting later on
And the sheets out on the couch
so you’ll not have to wake up to the sound of my alarm

It’s just another early morning evening
You’re tired of telling lies that I’ve grown tired of believing
The only question now is if you’ll come in while I’m leaving
Or if you’re out somewhere deciding that you’ll stay
Guess I’ll lie awake and wonder either way.

This time of night
gets longer every minute
I keep praying that the doorframe soon
will have your shadow in it
I know my faith is strong …
but it’s just been so long, this time
so long this time
guess it’s so long, this time
so long

1991

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That Reminds Me

It doesn’t take much to remind me:
a trace of perfume in the air
lipstick stains on a cigarette butt burning there
as much as I tell myself that I don’t care
no use lingering on
these things now that she’s gone.

But sometimes late at night
when the traffic is light
and the hum of the AC goes off
with a cough,
I can hear her soft breathing
beside me, believing
forever’s down payment
will carry us through;
what’s the use?

in this lifetime we hadn’t much chance
to grow old together,
in deeper romance.

And the seeds that we buried
will all turn to plants
in another man’s garden,
another man’s dance will be
with her tomorrow;
the joy and the sorrow
we shared and were spared
linger on in the air,
and despite my pretending
that I just don’t care
one trace of her perfume, the scent of her hair
or the sight of a cigarette just burning there
still reminds me.

27 NOV 2005

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Back to Natchitoches

Big city living can be so unforgiving:
people running ’round everywhere.
Good chance your neighbors don’t care
if you ain’t got a dollar to spare.
Everyone looking for the next thing cooking,
but ending up hungry and mean –
man, that’s just not my scene.
I’d much rather just kick back and lean
against the front porch.

Honey, don’t you wish
we could go back to Natchitoches,
live that sweet, simple life once again:
hanging with a few old friends
where the winding of the Cane River ends?
Wouldn’t it be nice to walk under the city lights
with that bright Christmas moon up above?
You and I could fall in love
all over again.

Big city bustle, the heartache, the hustle
of keeping ahead of the game
seems a mite bit insane
to anyone with half a brain.
Everyone crowded inside of a powder keg
shouting to hear themselves talk
behind their doublebolt locks.
I’d much rather just take a walk
through the pine trees.

Honey, don’t you wish
we were back home in Natchitoches
living the sweet, simple life once again;
hanging out with some new friends
where the winding of the Cane River ends?
Wouldn’t it be great
out at the pier on Sibley Lake
watching the lazy summer sun going down?
Where else is it so fine
just being in love?

Some tie their fate
to bright lights and the interstate,
hoping they’ll get pretty far.
Me I’ll stay satisfied
down by the riverside
my wagon hitched to a star.

23 NOV 2005

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Seasons After Spring

I’m just an outlaw over 40
with no airtime on the radio today
where each hot new hit’s a retrofit
of juvenile emotion and cliche;
but I’m laughing at the demographics
every time I get a chance to play
’cause for me real country music isn’t
about some gold records on display.

I’m just an outlaw over 40
far beyond my prime for video appeal
where the song need tell no story
if the actors on the screen can keep it real;
and to write about the fight against
such fantasy can break your record deal.
I won’t say that it’s not country, but
it’s whistle steam that never turns the wheel.

Music’s not just for the young,
not an excuse to sell CDs.
It’s about speaking from your heart;
at least, that’s how it is for me.
If music doesn’t help you grow,
it’s not much good for anything;
and only growing older makes
songs that have seasons after spring.

I’m just an outlaw over 40
whose wild days of drinking binges are long past
and who’s started slowing down to find
those things along the path that tend to last.
You may laugh at my appearance
and believe this song should be played twice as fast;
but it’s not your song, it’s mine; when you
build your own car, you can waste your own gas.

I’m just an outlaw over 40
who can’t line dance or pretend it’s not too loud
if I can’t hear myself think, and tend to
get a little frightened by the crowd
that is full of fight and vinegar, not doing much
but acting tough and proud.
I won’t say that’s not my country, but
intruding on my space is not allowed.

Music’s not just for the young,
to sell some product on TV.
It’s about sharing of your life;
at least, that’s how it is for me.
If music doesn’t help you learn,
it’s not much good for anything;
and only learning to grow old
makes songs with seasons after spring.

19 NOV 2005

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The Aftermath

Ain’t no use in looking back;
your eyes will be fooled by the mirror.
What seemed once to be so small,
becomes too big and crystal clear

Ain’t no use in laying blame;
The line between who’s right and wrong
is blurred with every movement on:
The tide rolls in, and then it’s gone.

What good is simply hanging on
to dreams that fade and turn to dust?
We struggle forward ’cause we must,
like darkness crawling to the dawn.

What good is thinking might have beens,
or wishing for some different path?
They won’t help you to understand
or live on in the aftermath.

Ain’t no use in looking back;
let shadows take the past and go.
There’s not much point in memories
that only say I told you so.

Ain’t no use in wondering why;
some things aren’t meant to understand,
and reason’s never all you need
to carry on the best you can.

What good is crying for a dream
that’s faded and returned to dust?
You struggle forward ’cause you must,
like winter’s snow melts into green.

What good is mourning what you’ve lost
in shadows somewhere down the path?
You’ve got to try to start again
and rebuild in the aftermath.

There’s just no point in sad tears
for the wasted years,
the time spent building those castles of sand;
As the new morning nears
and the stormclouds clear
you work with what you’ve got at hand.

What good is trying to hang on
to dreams of what is dead and gone,
leaves turned to dust there on the lawn,
the memory of a faded song

What good is dwelling on the past?
Those days are gone, the die are cast.
You’ve got to play the hand you’re dealt
and live on in the aftermath.

19 NOV 2005

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