Another great one, Sherman. I tried to shake it off, but it expanded into 10 different directions, mainly with my thoughts about...how much love is THAT much. And taking it as personally as possible, since reading it made me realize that I would stop a bullet for my wife or kids if such a bad moment required me to do so, then how much do I actually love? And I believe I somehow know the bartender's almost entire life-story within his act of plug-pulling, him needing to halt that unbearable singing. Your last line made me question the broadest scope of LOVE. And so, WOW!
Oh how things have changed! You might have known how many times you played it by a stack of quarters slowly going down. Today’s youth only understand private music. There is no public concert. Only earbuds and personal play lists. No mixed tapes shared with all on a boom box. No stereophonic speakers.
Oh man! How great was this poem! Being in love, or drunk, or in love while drunk is a closed loop where the same thought is on repeat. Obsession compulsion ouroboros. Or it least, it was this way for me, and I managed to stay away from juke boxes. Kris Kristofferson taught me English (well, him and Hank Sr. and Willie and Waylon). We were Soviet dissident refugees who washed up in Houston and my dad worked for an oil company. A grizzled old wildcatter sort of adopted us and brought over a milk crate of his records, so we could learn English. I was sorta learning Spanglish, courtesy of ESL classes, but I learned every song. Still sing them a lot. My husband kindly tells me that six times of my ‘Silver Tongued Devil’ are plenty.
😂 Well, he’s a pretty good husband. To save our marriage, I even stopped playing the accordion and singing Cossack dirges. The dogs miss their sing alongs
Oh that’s awesome! Thank you - but I’ve reserved ‘Three Days in the Life of a Chicken Plucker’, in the highly unlikely case I ever crawl out of my Carolina swamp, to write it.
I laughed outloud during a quiet moment at work reading your poem, then played the song ...
One I've never really heard before , such a visual moment , movement of the song and your memory true.
I'm so happy to find you here on Substack ! It's all new to me ... Every new read is like a lil present ! Thank you !
Thank you for the kind words, Cynthia! I'm happy you found me.
With those four lines, I have a movie showing in my brain.
Thanks!
Thank you: your work makes a difference.
That's very kind of you. Thank you.
Made me laugh. Not that easy to achieve:)
Thank you!
Another great one, Sherman. I tried to shake it off, but it expanded into 10 different directions, mainly with my thoughts about...how much love is THAT much. And taking it as personally as possible, since reading it made me realize that I would stop a bullet for my wife or kids if such a bad moment required me to do so, then how much do I actually love? And I believe I somehow know the bartender's almost entire life-story within his act of plug-pulling, him needing to halt that unbearable singing. Your last line made me question the broadest scope of LOVE. And so, WOW!
That bartender showed tremendous perseverance!
Hahahaha
Oh how things have changed! You might have known how many times you played it by a stack of quarters slowly going down. Today’s youth only understand private music. There is no public concert. Only earbuds and personal play lists. No mixed tapes shared with all on a boom box. No stereophonic speakers.
Love it!
I never got close to that many replays, but I know that feeling!
Hahaha! Yup!
Best I’ve read
Thank you, Eileen.
So great! I'm curious: was that a reference to Adrienne Rich's 21 Love Poems?
No, it was not. That would've be a cool thing, to reference Adrienne Rich and Foreigner in the same poem!
All right, I laughed. I really did.
Thanks, David!
Love this, Sherman
Thank you, Maria.
Arnold loves him some Brooks & Dunn’s “Neon Moon” over and over when his teams lose.
Hahahahahahaha! Bo!
Oh man! How great was this poem! Being in love, or drunk, or in love while drunk is a closed loop where the same thought is on repeat. Obsession compulsion ouroboros. Or it least, it was this way for me, and I managed to stay away from juke boxes. Kris Kristofferson taught me English (well, him and Hank Sr. and Willie and Waylon). We were Soviet dissident refugees who washed up in Houston and my dad worked for an oil company. A grizzled old wildcatter sort of adopted us and brought over a milk crate of his records, so we could learn English. I was sorta learning Spanglish, courtesy of ESL classes, but I learned every song. Still sing them a lot. My husband kindly tells me that six times of my ‘Silver Tongued Devil’ are plenty.
Only six times?!
😂 Well, he’s a pretty good husband. To save our marriage, I even stopped playing the accordion and singing Cossack dirges. The dogs miss their sing alongs
Maybe "Accordians & Cossack Dirges" the title of your memoir?
Oh that’s awesome! Thank you - but I’ve reserved ‘Three Days in the Life of a Chicken Plucker’, in the highly unlikely case I ever crawl out of my Carolina swamp, to write it.
Hahahaha
Tell me it was Hank Williams.
It was https://youtu.be/HKh6ZqVKmN4