Tuesday, September 16, 2008

The Postcards

The last time I saw them was at the Shrine. We were out in LA in '73 for the Grammys. The LA scene had gotten so snowy, you couldn't find a person who wasn't out of their band, out of their relationship, out of their mind, or just out of options.

I stepped out onto the wide balcony at the Shrine and had a final cigarette--at least for the night. I told the seat holder to get comfortable and I grabbed an extra martini.

She was so far out of my mind that her orbit hadn't yet made the long, slow turn back. And yet I got the signal. I looked up. The moon was full but so empty. I took the glass with me and walked out through the kitchen, down the street and caught a cab. The song was playing on the car radio, like a practical joke:

I own the tailors face and hands. I am the tailors face and hands.

I had been chasing it for so long that not even the chase was interesting anymore. I decided not to chase her this time, either. I just wanted to sleep.

I slept for 15 years.

3 comments:

Anonymous said...

I don't miss my face, but I sure could use my hands back.

Anonymous said...

i'd like to thank all the fans from the old days. best wishes!

Anonymous said...

There's a key still sitting on the mantle, dormant as roadkill, glittering like the answer for the last 17 years. I don't have the heart to use it. Or I don't have a heart.

The photos are all broken by light filtering through the curtains, floating dust making milky clouds out of the sunbeams. It makes the wood on the walls look and feel like the early '70s.

I need a cigarette. I only have a lighter.