You Can't Have Wanderlust Without the Lust

I should write something here today. I've been too silent, too complacent in allowing my old to linger here for you to reread and reread until you can pull no more meaning out of them.

But I'm not sure I have anything to say today.

Instead, how about an old poem about Barry White? I wrote this in 1998 (my second favorite year)... a few years before he died.

Barry White, Alone

I hear the calming
whisper of Barry White
on this October evening
this quiet city Saturday night
Barry speaks of loving
Barry speaks of the descent
Barry is old and different now
and that’s cool
but the whisper I hear
is a song from the middle
part if his career
the waking, the tumble, the risen hero
the lunging, the craving, the desperate and gone (the disco years)
the loneliness of stardom
turned into legend living long
too long because he can’t
keep up the ruse
he’s used to the looks
and now he can’t separate
the leering ones from the laughing
the last chance looks from the love
he is out on his own thick limb
but baby, they’re almost through laughing at him