Chicano Poet

Wednesday, May 03, 2006

Classic Interlude: Henry’s Bob Dylan Elegy For Bogie
And Blonde On Blonde

Elvis walks into Rick’s Café Americain
with a blonde on his arm,
this ain’t the Algonquin Round Table,

watch her bosom jiggle,
this ain’t no water table.
A young punk sits nearby

clinging to his life by a thread
as all young punks do.
I think I seen him in the Nighthawk window once.

The blonde used to be Rick’s lover long ago,
somewhere in a wartime Paris,
“berets meant something then,

at least, on men!” quipped Dorothy Parker.
Even in sunshine Europe was darker
and the Arch of Triumph didn’t triumph.

The blonde made Sam play it again
for old time’s sake she told him
until Rick came by to scold him

before old Rick sensed her presence
and wimped out, poured himself a drink---
if love is not exhilarating it stinks.

The young punk walked away,
his inner organs the same as Peter Lorre’s.
The fat man wanted to re-sign Elvis the Pelvis.

Rick continued to feel morose
while the bartender picked his nose.
The blonde got up from the table,

tugged her panties out of her butt
and tried to console Rick
with the very same fingers

by caressing his face.
Rick, of course, caved in,
turned into the romantic poetry of puppy love.

When she and Elvis got into the airplane
to head to New York or New Jersey,
Rick shot a German named Herman

just for the hell of it
he told Sam when he got back from the airport.
Sam’s eyes bulged out but there was no retort.


The plane took off into the sky
awkward in the eyes of birds,
Bogie thought he was gonna cry
so he shied away from words.

He stood there on the tarmac
surrealistic things crossed his mind,
he thought to himself, “I have a knack,
always sacrificing myself for mankind.”

But mankind didn’t give a fuck
and would not have given up the girl,
let somebody else play the schmuck,
you only live in one world.

There is no heaven and hell,
there’s only momentary pleasure.
a fighter listens for the bell,
throws punches, there is no time to measure.

Bogie could not see the poetry
and clung to what he perceived as real
unaware that if you pee into the wind
your heart can’t tell you how you feel.


Back at Rick’s
the porcelain was porcelain
and furniture was furniture,

the sky above the airport
was unimpressed that blue meant blue
and clouds made of stone

remained afloat,
basaltic and sedimentary
above the ants that labored without love,

the desert reduced to one sand grain
would still be a desert,
the wind blowing across the wind.

No human thought could make a dent
upon nature steadfast
and natural.


In the airplane Elvis was talking
about his upcoming tour
in some other desert city,

her eyes were sparkling
and the propeller noise
hid the insinuation of her voice,

he leaned in and his sideburn
brushed her cheek,
her smile misplaced in a smile.

His black hair reflected in the window,
clashed with the sky outside
where Gulf Stream currents collide.

Love doesn’t really have to be love,
we substitute it for everything else
but we don’t need to tell that to ourselves.


The handsome young punk
had an appointment in the desert,
his golden hair flowing from the convertible,

the desert flowers bloomed inside a room,
gila monsters with bolts in their necks
appeared to God in flecks,

the absent-minded jackass
forgets all the shit
he has created

so don’t depend on his omnipresence
just because he appears as omnipotent
as Disney’s rodent.


At 7:00 AM, Blogger Billy Jones said...

Stopping by to invite you to submit your blog’s RSS feed to Later --Billy The Blogging Poet

At 12:43 AM, Blogger RC said...

Hey,Billy,hope you're doing great.As far as my rss feed I just haven't gotten around to setting it up but as soon as I do I will submit it.

At 9:31 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Reyes, beautiful work...Stanzas 2 and 3 are heavy with sadness...the overwhelming losses we know.


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