Let Us Live

Banana Pudding Bliss With Jim James and Levon Helm

Ryan Adams called Scot Coogan, who said that he was not interested in playing drums. Levon Helm called Bonnie “Prince” Billy and received the phonenumber for Scott Carney who gave Levon Helm the telegraph-address for M. Ward who contacted Conner Oberst via Ouija Board who informed Mr. Levon Helm that he could locate Jim James at the Baskin-Robbins on Alexandria Drive, in Lexington, Kentucky, where Mr. Jim James (or, Dr. J.) finds solace in the banana pudding ice cream.

Levon Helm rode a Greyhound down from Patterson, New Jersey (when he was in the process of re-writing many of the poems of William Carlos Williams) and arrived in Lexington, Kentucky, on New Circle Road.

Levon looks at this circle wonders how many horse and dirtfarms were broken by this now not-so-new circle? He walks, left thumb extended, realizes his tremendous, beautiful, dirt-pure smile deters some. Left, right, breath, exhale, observe, left, right, breath, for miles: passes police station, Hustler billboard, a boundary of the once-famous Calumet Farm. He walks, with a three-mile stare, down exit ramp, hears the galloping beats, cathartic lyrics of Dirt course through fertile brain; tramps down Versailles Road, journeys along Alexandria, bypasses skeletal remains of Lexitalia, STD-laced payphone inside of Camelot West; ignores dresses designed for young Mexican daughters, enters Baskin Robbins. Let the bells ring.

Levon Helm dines not on fried black swan, but on an inverted clown icecream cone. He watches Frankie Lee, who Michael knows (and soon Levon will know) is obviously intoxicated from several bottles of Dollar General mouthwash. Frankie Lee dances towards Levon, stops, smiles broadly.

Levon Helm stops consuming the clown.

“You ain’t from ‘round here, is ya?” Frankie Lee chortles as wafts of strangely pungent freshmint penetrate Mr. Helm via nostrils, “I kin tell by th’ way ya’s crunch’s th’ clowncone,” and Frankie Lee emits a ghastly, freshmintly laugh, “Frankie Lee’s th’ name, sinnin’s th’ game.”

Levon Helm, a man who knows millions about dirt farmers, looks at the outstretched hand of Frankie Lee, says: “I’m waiting on a friend. I heard he might be here.”

“Well, who wouldn’t be here? Looky here, fella. We’re all family ‘n here,” Frankie Lee removes his dumpster soiled safari hat and a greasy crescendo of hair cascades down, wrecking Helm’s image of this fellow as a Shakespeare in a safari hat, “List’n, I’s down th’ Alexandr’a yesturday ‘n’s havin’ me a few quarts o’ beer there ‘n Lexico at dat there La Bamba. Talkin’ t’ two fellers from San Salvador El Salvador, talkin’ ‘bout Ricky Ricardo, ‘n them two fellers, like yous, never crack’d a laugh. Then I rememb’r’d, Ricky’s from Cuba,” and Frankie Lee flashes aged teeth far darker than Levon’s, raises chin, flings head backwards, laughs a fountain of freshmint.

Levon Helm begins a chuckle and Frankie Lee proclaims: “Them’s th’ purest teeth I ev’r seen… no wond’r you’re a hard laugh t’ crack.”

Jim James comes in through the outdoor, with two black pomeranians at his heels. He nods toward Frankie Lee, who tips his hat and curtsies in response.

“That there’s Dr. J,” heralds Frankie Lee.

“Thank you. You are a kind old dirt farmer,” and Levon stands, walks towards the center of two prancing pomeranians.

Frankie Lee reaches down, raises the clown, stuffs the remnants into his mouth, chomps, worries not about empire, realizes all is bright.

“Allow me,” Levon speaks, looks at Jim, into eyes so similar to the eyes of his father’s but not abusive, not drunken; looks into the eyes of Michael: “Two scoops of banana pudding, with marshmallow topping, pecan, whipped cream, and extra cherries.”

“Do we know each other?”

“Yes, we met backstage at the Judas Priest show at the Garden, and we spoke briefly at Bonnaroo this year, at the something else tent while Harybu McCage played,”

“Of course I know you, who’d forget that perfect smile? You’re the holy drummer, champion of all dirt farmers: Levon Helm!”

Jim and Levon embrace, drink in one another’s aroma as the black pomeranians circle at their feet, smiling the pink tongue smiles of black pomeranians.

“Why are you here, and in Lexington?”

“I have an important proposition.”

“Speak, memory!”

“Ryan Adams wants us to form an Alice in Chains remnants band.”

“Who will play bass?”

“That is your decision.”

“After banana pudding bliss.”

“What’s not after banana pudding bliss?”

“What’s not?”

Frankie Lee, Michael (son of a holy mother and a milkman), Levon Helm, and Jim James interconnect through laughter, deep-breathing, meditative, exploratory and binding laughter. The two black pomeranians spin in circles, celebrating the joy of all the animals present.

[written by Jo Son of Jo, 6/28/08, 8:29 p.m.]

My heart hurts and aches.

All I want to do is go back and make it right again.

But I can’t. So I’m just going to move forward.

There is no point on dwelling on the past.

-MissMlady

heartburn

stouter than Rainbow Gathering coffee

jailhouse coffee

Ire works better than me

an at away from eaten

a hat above to be eaten

one wretched cup of coffee in the

mystic valley below

wet floor

crutches slide

a new May

a new living buck

save

do not slaughter

do not spend

Ire works

before Russel Crowe Edward Vedder

industrial

music not revolution

digital

not thirty-five millimeter

centipede

ended

Ire Works

second less than previous second

1 46 57 fraction

Ben not so big unheard here

back to fallen tree

Red River Gorge or

George Washington’s wooden teethed forest

heartburn

sin burns heart

sin = without

sometimes

Ire works

I type poetry

a typist not a writer

an angle reads

angles must be read

never must

must never

“no

you left forever”

he screams

basset hound eyes

beyond heartburning mystic valley bellow

coffee

“why would we want

Kentucky coffee trees

we don’t drink coffee”

that’s what she said

a number return

from sick call

Ire works

dire

lost wolf and straits

caution

don’t stop to type on the tracks

*Jo son of Jo: 4May09

did not dream saw St. Augustine not Jack Frost Dylan Thomas Zimmerman body electric two students naked Texas A&M Angela Evans sought cyclops evaded poacher and tiger many hands shake introduce smoke to facial hair Peggy Sirota captures Angela and the mentor no petting zoo no cages clean and visible Andrew Slemp tardy to the jailfix six inches of rain fan blows posture Drew Barrymore smiles body electric navigation ‘neath moon beside moon one of many moons Angela Evans more astrologist than astronomer family tradition all palms provide tales mostly unread tales remain Andrew Slemp more tobacco farmer than DaVinci apologist family tradition all leaves previously stayed mostly beyond ocular tails remain although we forget until poets force introduction fallen tree sound or silent tail to trunk trunk to trunk holler far above though neigh hollers one of many gorges tail engorges pulses the sand gap remains to journey never to arrive always to journey destinations destined to remain like tales tails although journeys continue out turns in sleeping dogs lie breathe blissful breaths cartoons without ink without ocular an owl atop branch trunk devoid Bohemian grove devoid Redwoods sold cigars smoked Ms. Hart we are not in Bohemian Grove anymore Judy Garland told the Redwoods Jack Frost Jessica Lange inside a watchtower Robert Frost the way out is through in turns of Earth our planet Earth axis bold as love always a turn never a destination not even destiny odd awaken like a Buddha awaken even during a dream deferred awaken analyze journey without invitation never join Bohemian Club hike trails of life beyond games cereal organic frozen organisms clocks chime regardless of ears Redwoods fall regardless of ears no direction home or to Bohemian Grove sometimes complete unknowns know far more than near-complete knowns awaken awake *written by Jo Son of Jo* 2May09