the brave white hat

Wearing the brave white hat
wondering where the hell you went
these days represent stairs
dancing down the choreography
of time and light. The body
decays—drinking again.
No state of grace driving up
outside the door. I am
abandoning the ship with its jazz rock
and those other Narnian fantasies,
staving off the hollow bell,
the locked closet of this fear.
And where the hell did you go
in the midst of that whirlpool of moments?
Why won't you tell even one
secret, like the shrouds of your sailor's
warning, covering the moon?
Can't you take it any more?
It was your decision: Don't you
see the points beginning to tangle
in what little that is real?
Now the bullshit is like a normal cartoon.
Bullshit just packing this coffin.
I should've known, all the risks you take,
the killing concrete, the six hour bruise
of night, the laughing chance, the odd
gamble with death, this would be
the one time you wouldn't bet.
Anyway, I'm taking off the brave white hat,
that damn hat, and having another drink.
It's 97 outside, in here the heart
is glazed with black ice.



Alison Gaughan. Not much to explain. She had destroyed me by this point. I admit, I allowed that to happen. The heart is some sort of icon for that which can be lost. This life is so much about losing. My world, though more detailed, becomes smaller as the years pass and I wonder how much of this reflected any actual people. Some, though perhaps not as much as I'd like to believe. I miss you all.

"laughing chance" comes from Steely Dan's "Deacon Blues," which Alison quoted to me in a letter, explaining our losses. "They call Alabama the Crimson Tide..."