Down in the canyon near the white hotel
there grows a flower whose spirit
belongs more to the sky than to the earth,
and if you listen closely when the wind is right
you can hear it singing "I Get The Blues When It Rains."
Inside the white hotel our eyes met with no formal introduction.
I was a writer who had run out of ink.
You were a fly-by-nighter trying to wangle a drink--
a nun on the run who no longer made a habit
out of seeing the world in black and white.
And me, just out of seminary school,
still wet behind the ears,
but ready to get my feet wet as well.
We were like wind chimes on the verandah--
when the wind sang we all chimed in,
anthem to a blue chrysanthemum
that grows in the winding Canyon Of Love.
When you sang, you thought you were Billie Holiday.
I thought I was Billy The Kid,
so I stuck my gun in your ribs
and said, "Your honey or your life!"
We were busy as bees after that,
holing up in our hive--
listening to jive and getting a buzz on.
You moved like music
and you tried every number on me you knew.
All summer I roamed your hills and valleys
where orgasms in dark chasms
brought on the rain.
When the season ended you sent me packing,
lugging your baggage and mine...
you were traveling light.
Making a bee-line for the exit,
you trampled the blossom
that longed only for the same kind of freedom.
Now I'm standing here in these juicy shoes...
Oh Jesus, I've got to think about that one...
think about why I drank the dank skank of your love,
when all you ever said to me was, "HELLO, ROOM SERVICE?"
Down in the street a forlorn horn
laments what should have been a foregone conclusion
to one so prone to illusion,
as the mist forms upon my window
and I think about a flower
that sang, "I Get The Blues When It Rains."