Schamus delivered the 2013 Saint John's commencement speech: http://www.stjohnscollege.edu/about/AN/speeches/gradspeech_2013.pdf

Christmas Special 02: The Snowman (when he melts)

 A soul blues, like "Neighbor, Neighbor" or "My Babe":


What happens to a snowman when he melts?
He gets turned into something else
Mister Snowman melts and dies 
Nothing left bit two coal eyes
Please don't make a poor old snowman melt

What happens to a snowman when he thaws?
You can say goodbye, he's a lost cause
He will turn into a softie
No more being cooler than Frosty
Please don't make a poor old snowman thaw

Winter is the only season
For a frozen heart
Springtime blows it into pieces
When growth and greenery start

What happens when you melt a cold, cold man
Who never felt a thing since time began?
He will turn right onto water
Crying over some man's daughter
Please don't try to melt a cold, cold man

Christmas Special 01: Santa's Comin' Tonight

I'd like to do a Christmas show this year of all original songs, so I'm trying to get an early start on the songwriting. My first is a 70s Nashville weeper. More to follow.



Little Bobby told me after grace over our meal
The big kid next door said to him that Santa Claus ain't real
I saw his little worried face and had to make things right
I said, "Your momma loves your daddy and Santa's comin' tonight.

Christmas Day will be the best day ever at our house this year
Food and gifts and togetherness and all that yuletide cheer
I know you've heard your mom and papa having little fights
But Momma loves your daddy and Santa's comin' tonight."

Well, the truth is that sometimes you've got to tell your children lies
Tell them that they can't believe what they see with their own eyes
Kids just want to know they'll have both a dad and mom
That they're livin' with a nuclear family and not a nuclear bomb

My boy's all the world to me, I can't think about his face
When he learns the world's not such a happy, magic place
So I'll say what I have to, tell him black is white
That his momma loves his daddy, and Santa's comin' tonight.

(I lost you and then I lost) George Jones

Tonight I heard the news

And poured some drugstore booze

Into a jar with a picture of Fred Flintstone

I guess I should hold back

But my mood is extra black

Cause I lost you and then I lost George Jones

I feel the sadness coming on

As I listen to his songs

It's a pain that travels deep inside my bones

Just when things seemed seemed alright

The news came in tonight

That I lost you and then I lost George Jones

I know I've played around

I know I've been a drunk

And there are even worse things that I've done

But look at old George Jones

Well, who'd have ever thunk

That old outlaw would live to 81?

I'm spinning those great LPs 

And pitying poor little me

Drunk again and singing all alone

I'm slipping into the abyss

Say, what kind of world is this

Where I've lost you and now I've lost George Jones?

Shiva is

a 17 year old blind girl in Dadar.

My old nemesis as the Lemonade Seller: http://www.nytimes.com/2013/04/07/magazine/the-fearless-risk-loving-winemaker.html

I can't imagine what the overlap between Roxy fans and lovers of trad jazz could be.  I can only assume that Bryan Ferry made "The Jazz Age" for me personally.  Thanks Bryan. I may need to get a new maroon smoking jacket (full-length, this time.)

Shouting in a Bucket Blues

Ah, this is sad

Hard Times for 2013

Updated verses for a song that's a few years old now:

The Mayans made a prophecy
When the end'd at last occur
Instead we got the usual:
A schoolhouse massacre.

Hard times are these, my friends
Hard times, indeed

A policeman tried to tell me
His department was corrupt
He killed his captain's daughter
Before they blew him up

Hard times are these, my friends
Hard times, indeed

Lightning struck the Vatican
The chimney smoke blew black
The Pope had run away, and they
Were trying to get him back

Hard times are these, my friends
Hard times, indeed

Maybe I am trying to hard
To read between the lines
Are asteroids and meteors
Exploding warning signs?

Hard times are these, my friends
Hard times, indeed

Dorothy's Parka (Who Cares the Least)

It's taken me a while to get something here, really had a strong desire to "reply" to 4P. It's not what I initially imagined but I like it anyway. Makes a nice bookend I think. And a couple of nice "tricks" in it that gave me pleasure to write.

I'm sorry darling that I distinguish
What I show and how I feel
Your love infects me like possession
At your feet I bow and kneel

It may happen in conversation
I wear a mask and show restraint
You must know that I adore you
And I'm showing what I ain't

Could I survive the raging passion
Endure sans cesse the touch so sweet
Every day I would expire
Denied convention's clemency

So watch: I'm bland; see: I'm insipid
I've covered up the shameless beast
Who waits supine, dying for you
While I pretend to care the least

The Next To Last Night of the Year

Well isn't this a lovely night?
The bar has both Bud and Coor's Lite
You asked me not to call too late
But I'm starting to deteriorate
Two idiots right by the door
Go on about how they much drank the night before
Why'm I alone
Why am I here
On the next to last day
Of the year


My mother said that if your bored
You lack Resources--Oh, Good Lord!
I'm sorry if I seem remorseless
But I admit that I've no Resources
Tomorrow night, off to the scene
Where the boys are dumb and the girls are kind of mean
Why will I go
Why aren't you here
On the next to last day
Of the year


This morning as the sun arose
I was still dressed in last night's clothes
The crescent moon was nearly gone
The stars were fading in the dawn
Tomorrow night, another day
Another wasted year gets toasted and gets thrown away
And why go on
If you're not here
On the next to last day
Of the year

4.P

Came up with this while reading Dorothy Parker on the flight home from Montgomery AL:

All my wisest friends have told me

If you'd save yourself distress

Keep a close watch on your heart

Be the one who loves the less

Love well, my friend, but not too much

So they tell me that it's best

To lose your head but not completely

Be the one who loves the less

If you keep your feelings penned up

Slightly distant and amused

You're much more likely to end up

With your heart just slightly bruised

This is what my wise friends tell me

Thinking of my happiness

Yet I think just one more time I'll

Be the one who loves to excess

Last November I had an attack of the gout that had me limping for a few weeks.  The doctor told me I had to end my relationship with my old friend Bertolino Bourboni.  He since relented and told me it's OK to see him, now and again, socially, but that our former passionate friendship might lead to more and more frequent gout attacks.  I've done it before, of course, but this is a sad thing.  Tuba-playng and sobriety don't go together so well.

Bobbi's Coming Back

We've had our little summer fling

Our brief clandestine tryst

But I can't see you any more

Please go now, I insist…

Bobbi watches all her fellows

Her temper's bad, and she's jealous

Better run girl, girl run faster

If she catches you, it'll be a disaster

Tell your priest to start saying mass

'Cause Bobbi's going to kick your ass

All the way to Indiana

She's a new Tura Satana

'Cause now Bobbi's coming back

B-B-B-Bobbi's coming back

Bobbi's coming back to town

You won't like the resolution

Of her acts of retribution

But Bobbi's coming back to town

Sure we had a brief flirtation

But it's time to change your focus

Weren't you talking about taking a vacation

To visit your sister in Ho-Ho-Kus?

Don't think she'll get any softer--

Now she's taking her earrings off her

She will go and snap your body

She knows kung-fu and karate

Bobbi has the force when she gets vicious

Of a few well-armed militias

She'll do grievous bodily acts of harm

Someone just might buy the farm

'Cause now Bobbi's coming back

B-B-B-Bobbi's coming back

Bobbi's coming back to town

You better get your bags packed

If you don't want to get whacked

'Cause Bobbi's coming back to town

                                      The original Tura Satana

The Old Bear to Delmore Schwartz

Poor bear

     His toothless mouth that cannot bite

     His eyes now clouded milky white

     His sad, unending appetite

The old bear’s fallen down

Poor bear

Making wild faces like a brute

Pulling tricks in his charm suit

Panting, roaring, what a beaut

The old bear, man about town

Poor bear

Shambling with his funny trot

Humbled in a bunny squat

Looking for his honey pot 

The old bear of renown

Poor bear

In his sleep lets out a scream

All he ever does is dream

Of eating candy and ice cream

The old bear’s lost his crown

And even when I think I'm alone

He apes every move I make

I hear his sad, pathetic groan

The vast world of his bellyache

Poor bear

The joker with his rubber ball

His shoes too big, his pants too small

They clap and laugh to watch him fall

The old bear's just a clown

Poor bear

Takes one more round on stage

He growls and lunges out in rage

Ha ha!  Too funny! Doesn't need a cage

The old bear's going down

Bye, Ray

http://www.rollingstone.com/music/news/ray-collins-original-mothers-of-invention-singer-dead-of-heart-attack-20121227



(not to be confused with Lieutenant Tragg)

The Chatter and The Noise

An Along Came Jones studio recording: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5f9ATPbocDw

 

Happy birthday Jymn!  Let it flow with you.

F-hole

My wife

            with the dimple on her scrollwork

            with the smell of spruce and rosin

            the small of her back that vibrates

            as gently as a sound post

And her little f-hole

My wife

            her tongue a run of eighth notes

            arpeggio eyelashes

            allegretto fingers

her thighs two even half notes

And her little f-hole

           

And from somewhere within her

There beats a hidden metronome

A rhythm that I can’t quite capture

The ocean, my own secret home

My wife

her breasts a bit rubato

her navel a fermata

her cleft is like the moment

            between the up-bow and the down-bow

And her little f-hole

With thanks to Man Ray and André Breton's "L'Union Libre"

Let me be the first

To wish you happy birthday, Johny.
It's just past midnight in the departure lounge. Was hoping to write you a rhyme about all the gifts I wish you had, or I had to give you, or you had to get, but inspiration fails. So I'll settle for taking advantage of living half a day ahead of you to wish you all the best, first.
Love