Hello. Come on in. The daddy writes about current events, literature, music and, once in a while, drops something on you from back in the day to make you pause and ponder, stop and stare, and begin to wonder. Who knows? You may start to pace the floor, shake your head from side to side, then fall down on bended knees in a praying position and cry, "Lawd, have mercy! What is this world coming to?" Check yourself! But this blog is NOT about the daddy. It's about you: your boos, your fam, your hood, your country...our hopes and dreams of a better tomorrow. So let's make a pact: the daddy will put it on the track if you'll chase it down and hit him back. Together, we can definitely take it to another level. Shall we?"

Sunday, November 2, 2008

America and a lady I can't forget

Today, the daddy is thinking of America and a face he can't forget.

About 25 year ago, maybe 30, the daddy was in an upscale restaurant in Minneapolis called Charlie's Exceptionale. A tall, slender white woman came in and sat in a booth adjacent from me. She looked like a model. She wore a black dress and what looked to me like a chinchilla stole with a matching hat.

She ordered a drink and kept glancing toward the door. She did this for quite a while. She ordered a salad, moved the leafs around but never ate a bite. Whoever she was waiting for never came. I could be wrong, but I surmised that she was a well-kept woman of some insurance CEO or professional athlete, Maybe she was the wife of a Minnesota Viking.

Having noticed me looking at her periodically and scribbling on a small notepad, she asked:

"Are you an artist?"
"No. I just write a lot."
"Did you write about me?"

I immediately became anxious. I was afraid she was going to ask me what I wrote about her, and I didn't want to lie. So I answered:

"Well, it's just something I scribbled. It's about all of us, I think."
"But did you write something about me...may I see it please?"

Reluctantly, I gave it to her. She read it slowly. Then she read it again. Her face seemed focused and intense.

Finally, she wrote a check for the meal and drink, stood up, and returned my notepad. She didn't comment on what I wrote or say goodbye. But before opening the restaurant door to leave, she looked at me for what seemed like a minute and gave a warm smile.

This is what I wrote:

Who Am I?

I loiter in cold, grim, fast-food caves
choking on white, dry bread
exuding fumes of hate
in the valley of the lost ones
where only the Gods empty the tills.

I lunch in fur, on very dry martinis
in warm, plush dens whose chairs I cannot lift,
waiting for the God who stole my soul
in the valley of the lost ones
where all the gowns are old

I disco at Dappin Daddy Dan's
Head-boppin, finger-poppin, soul-droppin on
the outer edges of town, time and mind
in the valley of the lost ones
where only caged birds dare sing

I swim in rivers red, white and blue
trafficing ageless wines of me
for the sweet, decadent rage of you
in the valley of the lost ones
where only Gods walk tall

Who am I?


Somebodies Friend said...

And the final Jepardy answer is,
Who is a Heartbroken Woman!

how'd I do McDaddy?

MacDaddy said...

somebodiesfriend: I think you're right. But I could be wrong about her. Maybe she had her own business and was waiting for one of her kids to meet her. But there was a distinct look of sadness in her eyes that I couldn't describe. I looked through those eyes and saw a little of me. I think that's what made me write what I did. I think we're all trapped in some ways. Thanks, bro.

SagaciousHillbilly said...

Man, all those missed opportunities. . . if you only knew then what you know now or were as cool and suave as you are now!

rainywalker said...

I often wonder about those eyes that lock on us, perhaps one pair in 100,000. There remains a haunting memory, that returns from our subconscious to reflect back on an unanswered question. By your poem, you have locked it up in time, for all to see and question.

More poetry daddyBstrong.

MacDaddy said...

sagacious: In one sense, it was a missed opportunity. In another sense, it was a successful encounter in that I got to look through the eyes of another to see a part of her, which seemed to be a part of me as well.
rainywalker: Thanks. Looking forward to some of your poetry as well.

Nun in the Hood said...

Dear MacDaddy,
I once read about a psychiatrist who spent long, long hours listening to folks. Someone asked her: Don't you get exhausted listening all day long?
Her answer:
"There are two types of meetings, one with a small 'm' and one with a big 'M'....I try to spend my time with people MEETING them...seeing into their souls....That kind of meeting is not exhausting;it is envigorating." 'Sounds as if you had that type of ecounter with the 'lady you can't forget.'
This psychiatrist wrote a poem entitled "Alighting from a Bus" in which she describes a momentary Meeting between a bus driver and a passenger....momentary, but its effects lasted a lifetime.

MacDaddy said...

nun: Priceless. Thank you.

Somebodies Friend said...


I love the spot and pic of Spuds Terkel on you sidebar.

I don't know anything about him but he must have made an impact.

Christopher said...

I always look at people in airports and try to construct some 500 autobiography of their life.

It's probably terribly inaccurate but I suppose it is human nature to react to who we see.

Does the person look happy? Filled with sorrow? One quasi parlor game Jim and I always play is Spot the Republican.

I swear I can tell if someone is a Republican just by looking at them.

Torrance Stephens - All-Mi-T said...

not a min viking lol

and the words ESQUISIT