Monday, March 12, 2012

Mr Bojangles - Whitney Housotn & Bobby Brown

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.


curtains, locked

doors, late

nights bring


tucked in

and tuckered out creates



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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