These boots were made for.....Peace

I'm just a hippie. I wear flipflops and combat boots. Converse sneakers without laces. I go barefoot. But I broke my foot. And whether that's a haunting or the butterfly effect, I'll never know. But I know this. Every now and then I fall. Just call me Grace.

So I have a secret weapon. Little stilts that hold me up. Prop me up like the plastic ballerina in the mahogany stained box. A brace. But by damned, I'm gonna hide it. So on Friday when the band went Country, I hauled my hippie buns to the Country and Western Store and fetched home a pair of cowboy boots. I can't wear combat boots every Friday night. And Skinny smiled.

"Scratch 'em on the concrete" she said, not wanting me to slide. "You can wear 'em with anything" she said, knowing that I would. And I did. We danced til dawn and I woke up to them abandoned on the porch. Toes scuffed, and heels already lazy. They did me good.

"We're just goin' for burgers and a beer" he said and I climbed right in. Saturdays are like that. I didn't wear my armor.... And never saw her coming....

She snuggled right in behind me, beside me, a Marilyn Monroe wanna~be, plopped up on the picnic table to my right. I turned. "Who in the hell is snugglin' up to my show?" And there she was. Bullet Bra. Smiling... A toothy sort of "I'm gonna getcha" grin....and then she wriggled with glee. The only woman whose ever threatened to whoop my fanny.

I almost shook.

Payback is hell....

And I've been there

so

I smiled back. Stretched my fingers. Made a fist. And before she ever saw it coming,

I bopped her good.

Two fingers to the sky.

"Peace"

"You shoulda worn your cowboy boots" Skinny whispered in my ear....

The Feather.....

We called him The Indian. Never heard him coming. In the rowdy Friday night turbulance of our litttle corner bar, he snaked his way through the crowd, quiet and slow. I caught his eyes once or twice in the early days, small and dark, penetrating if captured, just under the brim of the cowboy hat. I always smiled. At The Indian. And he would nod. I watched him going as often as coming, the long dark braid down his back. We traded expressions for words. And it became a ritual.

When Kimbies was well enough and spirited enough to join us for Friday night beers, she slid through the crowd like Cinderella. Smiling, waving, "hey, how are you?ing" to everyone. She had heard their stories through the sister~grapevine, and recognized their faces from the hand me down tales. When Ronnie whisper footed past her, she embraced him....."The Indian". And they leaned in closer to each other, and whispered folklore stories and traded......phone numbers. Kimbie's hubby smiled. "She does that you know", "gives out our number"........ And that would be how we came to know The Indian as our friend.

He's doing the pink stuff now. The bad stuff. The chemo cocktail that poisens your system and maybe the cancer, that knocks you off your feet and makes you pray you fall off the earth and it ends. Kimbies knows. She's been there, viciously drugged by the "let me slowly kill you before I offer you hope" medicinal toddy. She waits. We all wait.

This morning I wandered, brick footed, into the backyard, tripping over mountains of construction debris and empty bottles. At the door to the shed/studio/condo/cottage/castle in the backyard, I found the feather. Held it up to the sunlight. And then placed it indian-quiet inside the doorway. For Ronnie's cowboy hat. When he hangs it here, in his new home.... "Gimme Peace".....

We're down to the finals. All the pretties are in, and done. Just waiting on the pro's. Some windchimes. And The Indian.....

Three Hundred and Sixty Five

What happens when three skinny hippies....
a poet, a philosopher and a painter,
camp out
on the
friday night
porch
drinking beer
and
7 and 7
and
running
barefoot through
each other's world?


They do this........





One scribbles with crayons,
One colors with words,
And one ties it all together....
the
butterfly effect.....


Three Hundred and Sixty Five....
Eric Bachman 2007


every string of hats from dead cowboys
each face painted with a new life;
Some found that old Boot Hill
was all of the
three hundred and sixty five
one night stands...
Every dead cowboy met his match
on that one night
he stood up to you;
my stranger


how many hats
do you own? do you wear?
how many six shooters?
three hundred sixty five
this year to the day

you shoot straight,
somewhere between the eyes
or in the the knees
sparing the heart
or at least sparing the hat--
but always the hat,
so you can paint
it shades of your lifeblood mosaic
and all the many broken but useable
blues
that you learned to sing
when we were all too young
to know where dead cowboys
hang their hats
when its time to say goodnight
with a hope that they've found a home
for one last night


Clink! To peace, love , and porch parties!

It's Friday and we're off to the Parade......

“I hate men in costumes.” Please quote me on that.

I am not turned on by a man with a lopsided cowboy hat perched on his head, like a toppled bird nest, and pointy shoes. First off, men have big feet and the extra 3 ½ inches it takes to fit their toes into the point looks absurd to me. And I don’t know how they drive those big trucks that go with the get-up. It’s a wonder they don’t get their rattlesnake tips all caught up in the under-the-dash wires just shifting from stop to go. And besides that, I don’t think Fords look like horses. At all.

I’m not crazy about the baseball hat thing either. Not backwards at all. And toss in the “I just bought these today” white sneakers and tidy whitey under shirt cuffed at the sleeve, and I get all confused. Is this West Side Story? Should I run back inside and whip up a dress?

And then there’s “The Suit”. OK, OK, OK. I know you dress up like that all day in the Florida sun to call on all your VIP customers, but it’s hot here. We bake here actually. If you’re not Richard Gere, leave the pinstripes at home. This is the south baby.

And don’t forget “My Bad.” Yeah. His mama taught him well. His shorts are the size of a teepee tent, just flashing a little ankle below and a lotta Joe boxer up top. His neck is drenched in electroplate, maybe even a tooth or two to match. And the doo……. The gelled and moused spikes, poking straight up in the air…..I can’t see the “running my fingers through your hair” thing….

Nah. I don’t do men in costumes. I like mine in levis and button downs, T-shirts and khakis. Just everyday threads. With everyday hair. And an everyday smile. In an everyday world. My world.

No wonder you stood out in the crowd.

I just wanna go round and round

"There are four walls and you have to dance to each of them" the instructor said as she animatedly pointed to each wall. "The Budweiser sign, the bandstand, the barstools, and" (here she takes a deep breath and waves at the masses ....maybe five tired cowboys and a few 40-something majorettes in denim skirts) "and the audience!".

I knew I shouldn't have done this. Come here in my hippie clothes with my leathered charms and peace signs. But okay, we're here now. I'll try.

To dance in a line.

The concept is odd to me. We all lined up like little soldiers (except most of them had on costumes) Tight jeans cinched at the waist (guys and gals!) with a thick tooled studded belt of some kind and Pointed boots (Do you have to buy them two sizes larger than say your sneakers, just so there's room to fit all your toes in?) Anyway, there we are, the three of us lined up with them and the music starts. Our first lesson in line dancing.

The music starts, George Strait, I think, but I'm not sure because we had to count. And I hate counting! Don't count my beers, my cigarettes, my gray hairs, or my money. DO NOT COUNT! And now there is this incessant chanting on the "dance" floor. One and two and three and four and pause and one and two and one and two and .......

"No sweetie, we always start on our Left foot, the left foot always"

Are you kidding me? I always start feet just a flying and now I've got to count and remember to ALWAYS start on the left, and only the left foot, and keep track of which wall we are dancing to? 30 minutes later, I am disoriented from parading back and forth and sideways facing north, count to 8, facing east count to 8, facing south count to 8, facing west count to 8, and again....and again...on this endless game of follow the leader. And WHEN do we get to move our hips? Or our arms? My hands are going numb from just dangling off my shoulders. Could we at least do the hokie pokie?

"And now we'll take a little break and let all of you winded folks have a cool one before our next session"

Please, please, please will someone put a quarter in the juke box and please, please, please, let Mick Jagger's voice rumble through this barn?

Winded? We haven't been doing anything! We've been marching in a square, but I welcome a cold one. And decide I will sit the next session out. Squirming in my seat. Counting time.

It started somewhere near my toes. The music. I could feel it. And then I was in the chair, blonde hair flying, feet just a going, kicking up the dust under the old table. Rocking out in the audience. They were still counting and shuffling when the song ended. They never heard the music end. One and two and one and two and....
I was winded.

I'll try anything once. Maybe even twice. Sushi and raw oysters for example. I didn't feel the love for either one until the second time around. But line dancing? I'll leave it to the cowboys...

Rock on.