"zevon" poems
A girl from the north country with eyes deep as the Great Lakes (if the Great Lakes were green).
Writers in numbers too great to mention.
The truth and those few who have the guts to tell it.
Contrasts and textures like white wine and black satin or the brown and white of tan lines.
Burgundy, my favorite color. Strong coffee and good bourbon. Garlic and spicy foods. Yuengling Lager. Pall Malls. Evan Williams.
Classic movies. Indie movies. Movies.
Mozart, Warren Zevon and Bill Evans. Beethoven's late Quartets. Leonard Cohen and Joni Mitchell. An endless list.
Lingerie (but not on me). Women in hats. Women in dresses. Long kisses. Women with souls. Women with brains. OK, women, though very few good ones seem to exist.
My sons. Tibetan art. Champagne. Apple computers. Cats. Space travel. ****
Quantum Theory. Buddhism. The Tao. Burning Bushes. Shiva and Vishnu.
Ghost driving aimlessly to see what I find. America is mostly off the interstates and mostly dying.
Young people who listen and know I'm real and like them..
Blueberries: food of the gods.
Breaking any rule I think is chickenshit in any way possible.
And so on.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 9:04 AM UTC
Here’s a playlist, Mr. Ex President:
'I Fought the Law' by The Clash
'Chain Gang' by The Pretenders
'Locked Up' by Akon
'My Own Prison' by Creed
'Prisoner' by The Weeknd
'Famous-in-A-Small-Town' by Miranda Lambert
'FatMan on the Run' by Paul McCartney & Wings
'Jailhouse Rock' by Elvis Presley
'Prison Grove' by Warren Zevon
‘Who’s Sorry Now’ by Connie Francis
‘If I Could Turn Back Time’ by Cher
If convicted, Trump should claim to identify as a woman
Mar 30, 2023
Mar 30, 2023 at 6:27 PM UTC
I think I was born crazy,
'cause things have always
looked different to me,
I've never been able to understand it.
When I tried to explain my feelings,
people would look at me bewildered,
shake their heads in astonishment
& say I was like that character
in that Zevon-song,
the one who bit the usherette's leg
in the dark,
ruined the *** roast,
killed his girlfriend
& made a cage
out of her bones.
Well, I'm really not that excitable,
no way I'd do those things,
I don't feel that way.
Like I said,
I think I'm crazy
& see just see things differently.
Or maybe,
I just see things differently
& I'm not crazy.
Perhaps,
I'm just like you,
& that's just a song.
And after reading you,
that may be it,
I'm not an excitable boy,
they had me all wrong.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 4:33 AM UTC
*We came together on a day in London
As you played to the werewolves howl
With a purpose to teach us something
Enjoy every sandwich now
You handed us your empty heart
Laid out on a bed of coals
Always in search of a shooter
So you could play it all night long
No amount of lawyers, guns, or money
Could hasten down your wind
You let nothing come between us
Looking for the next best thing
You always were an excitable boy
Accidentally like a martyr
To your good tunes it's goodnight my friend
See you in the ever after*
January 24, 1947- September 7, 2003
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 1:09 PM UTC
Real work, whether of mind or body. Real work isn't a job or an occupation. It is any effort that occurs when what you know and what you do converge with who you really are.
Mammalian warmth: the touch of human bodies in all it's wonder and pleasure that reminds me of Nietzsche's saying, "First, be a healthy animal."
A cat's purr. It's existence requires no justification; it is complete in itself.
Blueberries, the plants and the fruit. A feast for every sense.
Books, movies, and works of art that are so compelling they take you on a vacation from reality by creating their own more vivid reality.
My white, 1997 Saturn with 245,000 miles on it. A gift from an angel, I call her Moby and together we sail the asphalt seas. She's a real lady.
Birds. They fill the world with color and music and desire no profit in return.
A lovely woman with bare legs in a sun dress. As Wallace Stevens said, "Beauty is momentary in the mind, the fitful tracing of a portal, but in the flesh it is immortal."
The electric charge of lips touching lips, of flesh brushing flesh.
Anything, on a woman, that is made of silk. Silk is exquisite, elegant and ******
Weeds that flower, because their beauty is unexpected.
Evan Williams bourbon. Exquisite distilled ****** that burns and satisfies.
Cool evenings after hot days.
Conversation that sparkles with intelligence, wit and conviviality.
Warren Zevon, Thelonious Monk and Mozart, not necessarily in that order.
True friends. When the chips are down, they are a treasure more valuable than even family.
The magical, healing sound of flowing water.
Trees, especially the deciduous. Their greenness speaks to and cools my spirit.
Writing and reading poetry, my craft and my solace.
Love. It is elusive and difficult and perhaps impossible, but the belief that it may be out there sustains even the jaded, aging life.
The fecundity of the unexpected.
Fireflies. Almost too much beauty for one world.
Sunrises, because they bring the undeserved possibility of another shot at redemption.
Garlic, the spice of the gods.
And on and on...
- mce
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC
Another tragedy happened today-
Oh lord call the newspaper stand.
Said a young boy became a young man-
in the heat of the summer of sixty-nine
lost in a generation, he simply fell through the gap he ran out of time.
I'd say let's blow this pop-stand but the party is just getting started, so rather than run let's hang around and have some fun.
For if today is the day we all die, you may as well smile rather than cry.
We all got to somewhere sometime, sometimes sooner than later
Sometimes later is right now
Right now I must be moving on
and if you knew what I knew, you'd move right along too.
I'd say goodbye to my old town and my family friends,
I'd say goodbye because it doesn't always have to mean the end.
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 7:33 AM UTC
Townes crooning to my fevered head,
As I'm cast through a mindscape of love and hatred,
Shame and pride,
Sailing one great hallucination,
As if on a new rollercoast track,
Smoother than a ball bearing rolling across oiled glass.
Hooked by the hopeless story as it is told,
Of a curse laid upon those who have sight,
To see what lied in the fog and impenetrable,
Those vile machinations that they had laid.
Throat going dry as the mind burns and fills the burnt remains with cotton,
Time stretches out ahead,
A weight settling in behind the eyes.
The addict's words have such a painful splash across the airwaves,
it taking my fuzzy self a few moments that it isn't just Zandt's voice in the fray with a whirlwind of guitar strokes,
but a lonely harmonica,
That is his words droning through such a fabled instruments.
The walls warble with the tune,
The flag flutters into sight line as lungs are filled deep and shudder.
A controversial documentary plays as Zevon hammers upon the piano,
A crescendo of a warriors tale,
The old days of Rhodesia as it sung out like a beacon of the colonial world,
Right or wrong isn't my right to determine,
For I wasn't there,
Which brought back the last old guns of an even older world,
An age of adventures and thrills,
Unknown danger and reward.
As I think I settle back into the normal,
I look out and see only a half hour has passed,
And the fever is still burning strong.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 3:00 PM UTC