Thunderbolt & Lightfoot (1997)



“Hey. You stick with me kid. Your gonna live forever.” – Lightfoot

Thunderbolt says Lightfoot, lets on the range go, therefore unto heaven, in stars of Montana our ghost goes. And you can be like Eastwood priming, the preacher lessons told, I will look just like Mr. Bridges doing yoga on the road. We can star in pictures, with the high grass in our toes. Mr. Lightfoot, says Thunderbolt, we’re actors on the road. The evening is self-serving, the stars fall overhead, it could be new souls entering the universe, or the exit of the dead. The two they come together, sitting closely side by side, the front seat of a “73” Eldorado, with the “Big Skies” up ahead. Oh, my old friend, my dearest love says Thunderbolt, as he looks up above, for once in our lives, let two old queens enjoy the road ahead. I’ve dressed for you in long gone years, you painted your eyes to absorb hurt tears, and when we hit Montana, the burning will finally end.

Thunderbolt says Lightfoot, the shows we have staged within, the glowing purgatory, hallelujah, as the curtain would ascend. But now it seems a higher purpose, breaking harder on life’s final whim, the fire of something killing me, our last show must begin. My dear Mr. Lightfoot, Thunderbolt’s voice begins, we’ve just entered the gates of heaven, Montana, home, where your life began. Look beyond the script of the movie, your life a cycle spins. I know a fire burns in you, my love my dearest friend. The ghost of a thousand angels, is beyond that sunsets rim. Wait just a little longer till we reach “Wolf Creeks” bend. There’s a place in all dramatics, your life can come to end. And what I’ll do for your sweet memory, for all those folks that you have known. I’ll “Break it to them gently”, I’ll tell them that your home, I’ll tell them you’re the best lay this angel ever had.

Thunderbolt says Lightfoot, his smile a disappearing grin, if you would hand me a different cigar, like Mr. Bridges smoked in the end. Up above this mountain, this steep road, the sun is glowing but it’s midnight, on the watch in my head. The spell it is upon us, the final lines have been said, the fire of what kills cells inside me has left its ash instead. Oh, my old friend, my dearest love says Thunderbolt, as he looks up above, for once in our lives, let two old queens enjoy the road ahead. The silence is between them by moments, as the silence of the dead, as the silence of the dead.

For Angel & Bennie (Daniel 7:10) – 06.11.17 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Bobby


“Giardia”, he laughs, like it’s a proverb discovered. A simple word, description, hell even an action word that should be not only defined but lived. “You had it”, I say, knowing the answer already, knowing the full story to come, the psalm of life, that music, coming from a man about to die.

Spill me a sample of life in your tears, sometimes in laughter, overt without fear. Bobby do tell me of all those old times, I’ll just listen and not know why. It doesn’t matter, what you’ve done before, a silent film critic, with pain you ignore, it really is something these times that we sit, and keep your attention astray. I’ll let you ignore, that shadows are asking you to play, outside this door.

Momma you think she’s keeping you down, the truth of the matter is she wishing you found, no longer lost but heavenly bound, it’s okay, she’s wishing her son would stay.

Tell me of Pickford, of that old great train, it’s robbery in silence, the cinema of gray, those sounds not spoken, and maybe it’s just like your AIDS, a Potemkin treasure while the theatre organ plays. You’re quite a Chaplin today, funny man looking for stories while your breath goes away, Bobby in silence it goes far away.

“You’ll always write great things”, Bobby’s eyes are snapping, looking bluer than the gulf, on fire perhaps with some ancient star. “Why ruin a good conversation with flattery”, I say. He’s actually made me smile, with the flamboyancy of his announcement, delivered with the flourish of his weakened hands. Those hands, that have been typing for days, typing the old fashion way. “The truth is a fire”, he snaps, looking at me intensely, his gaze that of goodbye. “You’ll write of this someday, promise me”, he says, well really he demands.

Bobby, let’s talk of things that are old, immortal pictures, Faust, and what you know, Bobby don’t leave me without saying why, a silent majority has to die. He’s moving and talking his lips that don’t speak, and telling his friend, secrets that, I’ll always keep. You better believe, I’ll always keep.

“Giardia”, he laughs, like it’s a proverb discovered. A simple word, description, hell even an action word that should be not only defined but lived. “You had it”, I say, knowing the answer already, knowing the full story to come, the psalm of life, that music, coming from a man about to die.

Bobby Klepper passed away on February 2, 2000. As promised him, this is goodbye. 08.02.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל



Fagan (Talking Old Soldiers)

 

(Before you begin you’re read, go to the bottom of the page and press play on the video.  Reading Fagan’s story with his song, makes for just the right atmosphere.  Fagan would like that. 😉 )

Fagan, it’s Friday, I miss all your story’s, the wheezing in pain of your oratory, the silence, the mystery, of picture’s, of dazzling past glory.  I hear your chilling effects, a gift from the dead, I can’t seem to rest until this little poem has been said! Cheapened by fables and life’s worst labels, Fagan has syndrome deficiency acquired as disease. Protease inhibitors and gin as he glances at dying, he giggles at pain as we meet. It’s bullets and weapons a lost art of killing, I’m a talking old solider do you not recognize my defeat. Old couches and lovers have brought me the kingdom a gift from the devil while I was on my knees.

“I have lived from forty-six years, this flailing of warfare has settled my thoughts, of my needs. What is a minute when time is increased though it is leased? Is heaven ready for one talking old solider, lord, Fagan’s ready, why tease me by asking me to submit one more fleece. There is not time to love one more rhyme, I’ve championed my life, with lovers and wine, but still you keep me too long in this way. My kidneys are gone, my lungs won’t last long from this day. Why am I here, when reality fears, what I say? Inflame my heartache oh breath of my life, you have given me dismay.”

Sit’s Fagan a queer man, his honor invested in acumen logic, all medical procedures with his life held in play. A talking old soldier while AIDS eats his body away. G-D loves you dear Fagan, you are his own warrior, you are his receptor, hell in its laughter will not defeat victory this way. Run when you’re over, by then you’ll be sober, and pain will be melted away. Fagan you’re larger than cannons and missiles, greater than judgment of words of small people. I see you old solider, making me better this day.

“I’m just in your nature, the sum of your labor, we’ve talked on for hours, a talking old soldier of memory. You’ve helped me through sorrow, now please ask your G-D to relieve my life of tomorrow. What sin is there, that my father brought down to me, judges me mercilessly for this travesty? I see a loss of dead hero’s, tell them I’m hurt please.  Burn my body, favor me friend, do not incinerate my memory.”

Dear Fagan, old warrior, a talking old solider, someday in endeavor, I’ll write your war story, someday you’ll be stronger, your debt owed no longer, and when you look outward some light you will ponder, a talking old soldier an epic of a warrior’s destiny.

 

Fagan passed from this life in March of 1999, from complications of AIDS. He was forty-six years old. Each Friday I would drive to his small apartment, and more likely than not he would have his belly full of gin, and we would laugh and talk through his pain. He loved to play Elton John’s “Talking Old Soldier’s” over and over again as we would talk. For him it was the story of his present life. He taught me much. I miss you my friend. Kiss the face of G-D for me this day Fagan, I have told your story at long last as promised, and someone who should, will read it. – 08.06.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

All rights Talking Old Soldiers/ John/Taupin