So, this video caused quite a bit of "friendly discussion" the other day.
It took quite a bit of time for me to deal with Whitney Houston's death. I never realized we were sort of the same age. And as much as I liked her, we never really connected in the same way that I connect to other artists. Then, this old grad student acquaintance/playgroup Daddy/poetry superstar who is now one "presidential artist" and I agreed that this video was truly awesome.
His wife and my husband were in absolute agreement that this was the stupidest video of all time. (Which is one of the things I love most about my life. Artists wake up in the morning wanting to have a conversation! But, the museums and institutions go out off their way to prevent us from doing that. Because what we do is so sacred and precious and perfect that nobody can touch it or us.) Regardless, I digress.
So, I finally got something from Whitney. And as we all sat in friendly, loving discourse about this stupid video, we all were able to agree that the things creative people get up to late at night, behind their curtained windows and locked doors. Those things can be precious. But, so often, many artists are too stingy to share. And what this video shows is generosity. So - I guess that's what I'm trying to say with this poem.
Mr. Bojangles
(for Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown)
I like people who forget
to draw their curtains
at night. how I witness
the dark affect
others. I am the surreptitious one
looking in the window
as I walk past.
closed
curtains, locked
doors, late
nights bring
anything.
tucked in
and tuckered out creates
options.
silliness
and shenanigans breathe
a little light.
or shadows. the shallow
kind pushed back
by delicate flame
struggling to command
a yellow radiance
flickers and yammers
on and on about something
strange and invisible. love, passion,
support building
two auras. make a new
creature named Our
Marriage. it is unsure
where it began, took shape
and if the energy will ever end
it. but suckles the faded
hint of vanilla and jasmine. perhaps
cinnamon. the shadows cornered.
by flame,
all manner of insanity can occur.
in these shuttered seconds after sunset
a husband dances;
his wife whistles; sings
some old corny song;
laughter makes love and
then they have the nerve
to let the whole world see.
i will always love you.
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