June Christy: Two Poems

1. There's a tone.

The Woman breaks that note off, takes
Herself back to the window. She
Doesn't have to make any excuses.
Not for me, not for that bastard;
She knows she won't see him again.
There's a broken section of horn rhythm
& a straight shot from the drummer man.
The Woman maybe won't think about this
Anymore. Maybe she will walk through an
Evening surf, dealing with her loneliness
A step at a time.

Don't you know how brave that is?
She was just a small town girl from here,
Where I am these days. I can almost see her
Downtown. I can almost
Hear her asking for the paper.
That tone.

2. See, I knew Her—
Knew the girl part, knew the woman part,
Knew the need to walk away part.
I saw her grow up. Oh she had
A different name, lived in a different year
& I know June was living in Sherman Oaks
At the time. But still, I knew
Her, saw her take the necessary
Steps. Watched her surrender to the
Man who meant security, while
Clinging to the one night stand w/Belafonte.
She was resilient, determined
To be brave, to die in the desert,
Drinking a sloe gin fizz while
Indulging that pink sundown on the rocks,
Breathing broken cactus leaves,
Torn free by a bad wind.

But I still play those
June Christy sides, there's
Some truth there, some news,
Some of it even good.
Call that tone—resistance.


Among a larger group of poems written because of my obsession with the great jazz singer June Christy. I discovered June Christy while living with Pat Smith, who knew her work in high school and college. Later, in NYC, I discovered there were many JC albums and I eventually acquired everything. Somewhere along the way I discovered June Christy was originally a girl named Shirley Luster, who was born in Springfield, Illinois and grew up in Decatur. She went to Chicago in her late teens where she was eventually discovered by Stan Kenton and installed as the vocalist in his orchestra. June Christy died in 1990, in Sherman Oaks, California. The second piece relates the character that JC used (particularly in "Something Cool") to an old friend of mine. She had many adventures that she hid from her husband and family. Her method of dealing involved keeping parts of her life in separate "containers".

Who She Is

she sulked on the cane couch pissed
at her father or at me or at someone
she couldn't name her nights spent
alone with piewacket*/no that's not
true his name was dumfer, dumfer
the blonde cat born to hide only
comfortable in the pot smoke and
the jacard lace the steady low
voice of waylon or willie or cohen
in the room speaking about loss
or will or inevitable destruction
surely she will rise in the garden of her life
her flesh laboring from the chains of
deception she has strung together
this time surely she will cast them
off and find the sphere of energy
it's enchantments still a surface
to her joy surely the day is blessed
even in her confessional the time
leaking through the sheets the lost
child of her childhood walking the
empty streets of sinatra-town
Surely I could have helped or
at least not have become a dark
corner necessitating the magical
attack the natal lie surely I could have
been a better friend despite her cruelty
and her ego-centric dancing surely
I was no better than she in those days
walking half ass on the side of the side
of my foot graceful in my idiocy.
Her name was Cecil
Her cat was Dumfer
She once was raped in Italy
She fucked out of pity
These are conjectures masquerading as fact.
Who is hidden here is beyond measure.
Certainly she is a goddess, come
to puzzle her way through this suspect
ever-decaying scene. I chase these
brief moments of clarity. I grasp at the
details of an apocalypse of sorts.
I wonder at the cellular growth
in the lacunae of these lives. I am
Still writing it down. Still trying to be
honest. Still not a hero nor a judge.
Still not willing to swim to the bottom of the loch
and breath the cold water.


* The name of the cat in "Bell, Book & Candle," (1958) a movie about contemporary witchcraft starring Kim Novak and Jimmy Stewart.