Good Love

The first musician I ever felt anything for was Kris Kristopherson. My mother called him a hunk. My father played his tunes as a backdrop to an Arizona roadtrip.

So, being a backwards person back then, as now, I filed my interest away until I started driving my mothers green Volvo. There at the turn of the key I discovered again the Saguaro cactus and gravel of Arizona, and the lust of a woman I call my mother.

My interest in him was pretty much confined by my refusal to buy a stereo or purchase music, so I played moms off white cassette tape till it broke itself and her heart. At this point we went and bought a CD... together.

Now, a few years back I went to see Mr. Kristopherson in person: at Beef and Boards. My friend Matt Boyer (a better guitartist than Kris by some measure) and I filled up on prime rib and mixed vegetables and all the other goodies that came from the Beef half of that night, and after filling ourselves to capacity, sat back with our table mates (an excitable couple in their middle sixties), to listen to a croaking, hoarse gentleman sing things that sounded only vaguely like the Arizona desert.

None the less, the night was excitement and inspiration. We heard good things from Kris about Ross Perot and the Sandanistas. Matthew felt the muse awake through the soft fog prime rib vapor, and we went back to his place to make a little music of our own: me on the harp and Matt on his guitar. This poem is quite similar but also little, yellow, and different than a song on Kris's last album "A Moment of Forever".

Damn the way I always touch the ground
When you go your way, I go my way too.
Was it you that used to say, "Life's to short
To live this way," darling, I believe
That that's the truth.

Cause sweetheart our Love don't have to feel too bad
It's petrified when right, and rarely wrong
We don't have to be so sad (and lonesome)
Tell me why it is with me you don't belong.

Hmm... I should tell you,
You have brung my blood to boilin'
Even at this cloud nine altitude
If I believed the things you say
Then wouldn't we let echo's break
Within the halls that consecrate
Your truths.

Frequently... I penetrate the throng
The drink of human longing and perfume
I guess its you that always said
"Don't let the girl's go to your head,"
I wasn't smart enough to exempt you...
For sweetcheeks... good love never feels too bad
To sacrafice the weaker for the strong
Yes I am sick of feeling sad, sad and lonesome
Tell me how it is with you I don't belong.

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