13-15 de noviembre

bits and pieces:

blow my blues away.

sitting in that same old rooftop cafe in kathmandu with a beautiful sad silent woman who reads rushdie as i read the blues in her face and her green tennis-shoes. she is as unapproachable as deep-sorrow, or the bottom of a cliff.

* * *

blues
by robert johnson

don't have no baby
no one t'call me dear.
i don't have no baby
don't have no one to care.
i got pocket fulla money
shoes been a thousand miles.
but i ain't found me no baby
walkin'till the sun go down.


* * *















another blues

i got a cold-hearted woman
won't give me no sweets
i got a cold-hearted woman
put me on the streets
got a desert for my bedroom
i just can't go to sleep

cold-blooded mamma
stabbed me in the back
she's such a cold-blooded mamma, yeah!
lord i want her back
she don't wanna be my lover
she ain't no friend o'mine

(got no money in my pocket
got no place to call my home
my heart & soul are frozen
'cause my baby she's so cold!)


* * *


ironies of sorts (or a sort of irony):
why do people resent you for not providing
what they were not capable of asking for?


* * *


i meet again my desolation angel, and he walks with me through the lonely crowded streets of kathmandu, peering, and occasionally lending a hand, into my busy inner life. he sees the sadness looking out.