Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Every song
I've ever sung,
I sang to you Hugh.
Our love is here to stay.
I don't wanna walk without you.
Bye Bye Blackbird.
Triste`.

The day you died,
birthed a gypsy in me.
You took me in,
told me I could sing,
had faith in me,
like i'd never known.
Moon river.
Willow weep for me.
Nature boy.
In the still of the night.

I packed you up
in a knapsack,
attached to my heart.
One more for the road.
But not for me.
Sophisticated lady.
You're blase`.

I had to move on too
after you did.
After all,
I promised you i'd carry on,
in the depths
of your lightness
of being.
Night and day.
Lush life.
What is this thing
called love?

Joy eternal
you gave to me.
Like that Halloween night,
long ago.
You were drunk,
with lit candlelabras
in hand,
outside the window,
on Robin Hill,
quoting Poe's raven,
nevermore, nevermore.
Make em laugh.
Forget your troubles.
Cry me a river.
Somewhere over the Rainbow.

Dear God,
I hope that's where
I'll see you again.

I had a Hugh too--
an old lady named after Mr Hefner
who wore black fur coats neverendingly,
which made her tiny body seem much lusher
thicker
fuller--
and my Hugh was a lady who traveled
the country more than the world
and even then, not too drastically,
though always dramatically--
and I snuck her into a cheap motel in Illinois
in a midwestern stormnight once
when she couldn't take the driving anymore
and when I was too poor for paying for all occupants
and she didn't mind--
and Hugh lived with me in Kansas
a small apartment, but big enough--
she had been raped and was healing--
she was old then,
quiet,
didn't hold a grudge,
just wanted somewhere gentle to live
and when I went flying out of the country again
she stayed home again
and died while I flied away--
and my friends buried her,
told me about it when I came home because I couldn't be reached abroad--
at her funeral they told stories
sang hymns
blew bubbles
shot off fireworks
and the pastors too photos tastefully so I might witness
how Hugh was loved by many
by many more than I had ever known--
and I receive cards from Kansas once a year--
photo of a prairie grave
where the flowers have taken nicely.

Alas, po' Hugh:
you showed him
La Rue!


Exquisite, my dear Hez.