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Saturday 1 December
World Aids Day
Woody Allen o
Carol Alt o
Alfred Cellier o
Julie Condra o
John Densmore o
Etienne Maurice Falconet o
Bob Goen o
Matthew Laborteaux o
Mary Martin o
Keith Michell o
Bette Midler o
Matt Monro o
Jeremy Northam o
Jaco Pastorius o
Billy Paul o
Richard Pryor o
Lou Rawls o
Cyril Ritchard o
Dick Shawn o
Rex Stout o
Charlene Tilton o
Lee Trevino o
Alexander Ryan Ward o
Treat Williams
Sunday
2 December
Irina Arkhipova o
Tracy Austin o
John Barbirolli o
Dan Butler o
Maria Callas o
Dennis Christopher o
Cathy Lee Crosby o
Milton DeLugg o
Jorg Demus o
Ric Felix o Hy
Gardner o
Adolph Green o
Alexander Haig o
Julie Harris o
David W. Hearst o
Randolph Hearst o
Frank Israel o
Lucy Liu o
Michael McDonald o
Stone Phillips o
Charles Ringling o
Monica Seles o
Georges Seurat o
Britney Spears o
Rena Sofer o
Gianni Versace |
THE DAYS OF THE DANCING, 1980 |
|
I cannot imagine thinking
more of love fifteen years ago
than I do today.
In the cushioned boardroom,
aeroplaning place to place,
walking, riding, flying.
In the X-ray room
or beneath the dentist's drill,
in my living room -
still tongue-tied when friends
bring strangers to my house -
love is still the bell that goes on
ringing, singing in my head.
In rooms and out of rooms
beneath the sky and in it
love dominates all thoughts
and sometimes supercedes
true thinking.
All the songs are different,.
those of others and my own.
Titles and a snatch of tune
are for reference only.
And younger days
are sometimes yesterday,
this morning or within the hour.
Beretta's now a mime
in New York City -
lovely as a princess,
though dressed up as a prince.
The lark still lives within her
and if he seldom sings
when he does, the melody
is more than music, even magic.
There are no Silver Dollar bars
in San Francisco
and thus no jackpots to be won.
Hustling is now an industry,
not done in shadows .
and finally, if one goes back
no Wasserman, need be practiced.
Legions must thank God for that,
I do.
Loving is even less collective.
Across the bay the cult of self
has reached proportions laughable
to some, and sad to more.
Still hardly anyone
dies from lack of love
if his dying place contains
a mirror.
The days of the dancing,
six feet apart
has now been so refined
that bouncer's battle crowds
who come to die in discos..
These deaths are orchestrated
by Rubel, Regine and rhythm-sections
loud enough to make aspirins
unnecessary
and elevate the headache
onto a plane above mere pain.
Abercrombie's split
with Fitch.
Sears wouldn't speak
to Roebuck if he could.
To send a telegram
down the nearest street
requires a phone call out of state.
Communication ? Well,
there's public access television
and the want ads too.
But what we want
we do not find
or those of us who do
protect our newfound treasures
as we used to sheath
our ducktail pocket combs.
When I think of love,
and I do all the time,
I think if I had
one more lover
I'd be satisfied forever.
Age hasn't made my mind up
but how I've practiced
all these years
I feel I could be good now.
I know I'm finally ready.
I worry too
that in this headlong
stumble forward
perhaps I missed the great love
or brushed aside
and didn't pay attention
to the moment -
in my eagerness to investigate
new moments up ahead.
Sometimes it's easy.
Love isn't practiced
only thought about,
but then the need
like water to the driest land
overtakes me and I'm done.
Just now
want is such a heavy mantle
I'd sign away my eyes
if they'd had a final look
on someone I knew
would be there too,
and waiting,
within whatever darkness comes.
These are the days of the dancing
I now know every step
and I am eager to learn others
if that will help.
Steve always waves me past the buffaloes
and into green grass.
The music's on a slippery slide
the lights are flashing faster
than a pulse beat.
It's up to me
to not be carried
too far off by Gloria
and all the glitter.
I too can say I will survive.
I must. For even as the years
add up
I know that something waits.
There are no boundaries anymore
except one's own good taste.
Pause in the dancing,
stop the speeding light,
try to remember to look around
it always worked before.
And so
it's not the living
that's important
re-living is the trick.
Remembering is the key
and that one passkey
unlocks all the locks.
I'm here. I'm trying.
Gloria's got it ! I will survive.
For I have gone
beyond survival
to another plane
one that demands
a long reach backward
to pull through the rabbit hole
what I passed up
on the highway
or lost while sparring in the dance.
Happy the days
of the dancing
for they have all
turned into night.
The shadows are softer
and stars all twinkle
under clapboard skies,
but do not be mistaken
this is reality
as real as any you will find.
I'm moving straight ahead
it's only that I'm finally learning
to look backward.
I see you.
Well, almost.
You have been
collected in my head
from all the things
I want and wanted.
I await your coming
like the tide
or some new moon.
I won't forget
your first name this time.
I've practiced free association
till at last I'm free.
Bound by what I need
but free to have it
if I'll try.
- from "Looking For A Friend", 1980 |
