ONCE WHEN WIRED
I knew Mike Bartholomew back when
he was alive, and he always drank black
coffee. At six feet plus, then, he was already
tall, and beckoned to me to reach his land of
heights and achievement. He'd walk around
talking, while Sonny Rollins or John Coltrane
played on the studio phonograph. 'Casual cool',
it later came to be called. He'd up-tempo theme-songs
and advertising jingles on his electric guitar, turning
them all, somehow, into a three-chord rock pattern.
It all sounded so funny, so natural, so right.
-
Me, a gutter-rat to his aplomb, I'd just be around to
watch - big mug in his hand, some self-made
pottery thing, with black coffee always in it.
He knew all sorts of plays and writing, and
he'd just talk it through - out of nowhere, I
never knew such suspense. He painted
big, broad canvases, with a rag.
-
Mike is dead now - for all practical purposes,
so am I. But I remember. I recall. You'll never
put this life over on me again - I remember
every little detail of it all.
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