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The Piano Man I knew the Piano Man. I saw him through the warbling haze of a Saturday night lounge on the Ohio, where music flowed at the end of the day. His eyes sought approval from the crowd, his fingers danced across the midnight music of a desert with no horizon. My upright bass rhythm was only a bottom line. The magic came from the Piano Man's mind. Words spewing from his mouth told everyone of his pain; no one listened, though everyone came. They dropped money in his jar. It was a guilty price they were paying for their one night stand. It all began with the Piano Man. "Come, hear me! I am music! I am not your savior or your clown. I give you free advice and respite from your festering lives so close to the ground." A tie wrinkled around a lipstick collar, makeup and mascara growing older by the minute, the couple had cleansed their souls and were staggering home as the Piano Man sat alone, and played on. Beating mercilessly on the ivory keys, he offered all who surrounded him music to soothe... music to please. His pain was their salvation from a church they never had to attend. My fingers and my heart grew heavy listening to his chords of discord. He meant well, but got angry. He somehow knew his future was clouded; there was a mist about him shrouded. I knew this man was the genius of all who lived for their music, and those who died. The Piano Man felt his life was slipping away, down the keys it began to slide. In the fall he strolled through an idyllic garden with his sweet and beautiful bride. The light on the sun dial was bright. His wife was new hope in his now shortened life. His head hung over notes in a lounge by the river. After the honeymoon he graciously returned to his usual, haunting melodies, strains, and chorus refrains. There was new meaning, yet the couples' faces and one night stands would never change. "Come, listen again! My bells ring clear, and my voice, now raspy and hoarse, will sing you the songs you need to hear. My fingers will once again punch new holes in your smoky existence! For I am still not your savior, or your clown. I am the Piano Man... Please, come gather 'round!" |
Additional Notes:
This poem is dedicated to Ron, a musician in Louisville, KY, who died at the age of 33 from a rare disease. He was the real 'Piano Man' before people like Billy Joel came onto the music scene. He played, and died, for the sake of music, and only for the sake of music. He was very popular in his hometown. I was his bass player at a lounge in a restaurant by the Ohio River.
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