A tribute to misfits: A fictional creative writing about people who have walked on to the other side. Some passed from suicide, others from disease and age, others from addiction and some might have just been a mistake.
I am definitely not in the ‘everything happens for a reason’ camp.
I mean no disrepect, I hope poetic license covers me here in honoring the loss of these creative ancestors.
(draft)
BACKSTREETS of HEAVEN
A Tribute to Misfits
Spade and Leopard
I clutch my faux fur leopard red silk lined handbag full of expensive technology and lipstick, red of course Rushing through the crowded marketplace Saying: “Do not see me,
do not steal my stuff
This bag is Kate Spade
and she died for her art”
I wonder if the rhinestone sunglasses and leopard print make me a magnet This bag, given to me by my affluent friend when she was done with it Kate was done with it too If only we knew…
I took some of my fashion ques from men who wore purple and those who painted their face with red lightning with plenty of leopard thrown in You can blame my drag queen taste on them
I rush on through the crowded marketplace looking for a red dress thinking of Kate
The smell of street food cooking makes me remember, him He and Spade left the same week perhaps they were on the same elavator that Prince told us about
Bourdain and Reindeer Moss
I have been determined to go to parts unknown now made known by Anthony Bourdain because this is part of my adventure with my lover We must go to NOMA Denmark’s highest cuisine, because we watch Bourdain we order reindeer moss with chocolate we eat rose petals in a circular disk and a pile of crispy lemony ants
With no reservations you can’t get in so we made a booking in advance Finally here, where food is foraged each day for our pleasure I snap a picture of my love the chef at the door
I wonder with a fan’s fever if I can sit where Bourdain sat The only show I watch and we know heaven requires no reservations The noodles we have slurped with him the insects fried and tried the trips to nowhere that are somewhere The Elvis of bad boy chefs You made us swoon Irreverence and authenticity a misfit among chefs a darling of foodies an advocate for backstreet cuisine without mincing words
Cohen and Oranges
He had such a way with words Words that make you come undone I am listening feverishly to his last words about wanting it darker
Consuming his language like Suzanne’s oranges trying to understand hanging on every word “like a bird on a wire
I try to be free”
As I listen and hope he is free and yes, hearing the bells that still can ring… His last words in a last song
“If you are the dealer,
I’m out of the game
If you are the healer,
it means I’m broken and lame”
He’s now out of the game while I sit up in bed listening drinking tea all the way from China imagining the conversations we have had do have will have I miss you We all do We will ring the bells without you but it isnt’ the same
Purple Rain and Lavender Lace
I suit up for my own game and give thanks for his fashion tips for the mind his poetry gave me
In my youth he made a safe place for shadows I am covered in purple rain, A teenager in a lavender lace dress made by grandmother There are lace gloves, glitter and too much mascara, lace up boots and a big girl crush There are shouts of ecstasy when the purple man emerges with no apparent gravity We scream for him
Twenty years later I thank him for all the lovers I didn’t have to have because at first touch they didn’t make me feel like the little red corvette or a limousine, or a lady cab driver or like putting on my raspberry beret with nothing else
My instincts knew, because he taught me, my teacher of sensuality saving me from promiscuity Late night dance parties miming I would die 4 U by myself in footie pajamas No one is in my bed but me
You were my invisible lover Just knowing you were here on earth creating and teaching us about purple school, You are with me every time I dance The color of my lavender lace dress is the color of love I have have for you master of mystery
star
Ziggy Stardust, you rascal you let the Japanese cat out of the bag and no one can put that kitty back The thunder bolt over your eye the circle on your forehead posing an inescapable invitation Who is ACTUALLY in here living this life? Singing this song?
“There’s a starman waiting in the sky
He’d like to come and meet us
But he thinks he’d blow our minds”
From you I learned to be in love I can’t tell you why My high school yearbook said I might marry you My friends actually got close to you I was still waiting
You are man as art Man beyond man Man not afraid of your feminine, changing unapologetically to try this thing or that
From Ziggy I learned my legendary self was in there, in here, ready for me
Your play, your motion, your magic: A giant permission slip We don’t let men join Cosmic Cowgirls but you are still an inspiration for embracing the paradox with glee Your last words in a last song:
“Look up here, I’m in heaven
I’ve got scars that can’t be seen
I’ve got drama, can’t be stolen
Everybody knows me now”
BBQ Tacos and Beer
I heard the news today, from the glitterati network: Major Tom doesn’t need to ask for a drink to be sent, He is in charge of the bar in the back of that hotel with the pink door, you know the one Not all of us are invited but then not all of us want to be There is a pink neon finger, pointing to a cocktail
Major Tom is joking with the guests
“I’m floating in a most peculiar way and The stars look very different today”
Everyone here knows just what he means Meanwhile Prince is laying down licks with Ziggy’s guitar
Sadly between the killers in high places, and the elevator, we do indeed, break down Yet in the backstreets of heaven there is a chance to sing your song and he does
“Dearly beloved
We are gathered here today
2 get through this thing called life.”
Everyone cheers the irony After a while Prince changes tunes, nodding encouragement to the youth chorus Those kids who died young are here to sing tonight Prince has been training them They are singing an anthem about “killers in high places” They are studying Cohen:
“I can’t run no more
With that lawless crowd
While the killers in high places
Say their prayers out loud
But they’ve summoned, they’ve summoned up
A thundercloud
And they’re going to hear from me”
Now that Cohen is in heaven he is working on changing policies Bowie isn’t sure it is worth his time Cohen cannot help it, his romantic heart seeks beauty
Everybody who was anybody was already at the bar drinking beer or a martini with Bombay Saphire, a Bowie fav
The alluring scent of Bourdain’s bbq tacos waft through the place No one can remember being this hungry Some say he learned the recipe in Singapore
Kate Spade is expected tonight and everyone is hoping she will dance with them but no one knows for sure anything at all Fighting sorrow in heaven is just as hard as earth there are no rules as to how it should go Rebel Rebel every one
Major Tom’s wife, is here because she could not live without him She is polishing glasses with tears in her eyes listening to those young kids She says to Cohen, as she lights his cigarette
“Will we ever learn to love?”
He returns her gaze and slowly sings, a voice at once arresting and unsettling All she can hear is him
“The birds they sang
At the break of day
Start againI heard them say
Don’t dwell on what
Has passed away
Or what is yet to be
Yeah the wars they will
Be fought again
The holy dove
She will be caught again
Bought and sold
And bought again
The dove is never free
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in”
Sellars and the Notebook
The artist known as Sue Hoya Sellars hears Cohen singing She loves that song used to sing it out loud She walks into the bar with the pink door in the backstreets of heaven
You have to be invited to this bar but she found her way needing no invitation or introduction You need no reservations She’s so cool She chats with Major Tom’s wife, as if they are old friends, orders a beer, winks, says to put it on her tab laughs and takes out her leather notebook handboud in Italy, somehow, she got to take it with her
They say you can’t take it with you but, her notebook and Ziggy’s guitar pretty much blow that story
Major Tom’s wife nods to her “Misfits welcome here”
Tacos are delivered to her with a red and white checkered napkin She feels at home, an artist among artists The tacos are dang good!
Dancing in Heaven
The backstreets of heaven are abuzz Bowie, begins to sway and throughout the backstreets of heaven the song is heard:
“Let’s dance
Put on your red shoes and dance the blues
Let’s dance
To the song they’re playin’ on the radio
Let’s sway
While color lights up your face
Let’s sway
Sway through the crowd to an empty space
If you say run
I’ll run with you
And if you say hide
We’ll hide
Because my love for you
Would break my heart in two
If you should fall into my arms
And tremble like a flower”
Everyone, it is said, began to dance in the backstreets of heaven
Between Bowie and the BBQ tacos of Bourdain Major Tom and his wife were quite busy that night Everybody who as anybody could hear the music and showed up Even Kate No reservations required Yet you do have to find the pink door
Golden and A Kiss
Arriving home after the crowded marketplace I see Kate Spade in gold on my bag I blow her a kiss and thank her for this I take off my sunglasses and slip into my red dress
I pour myself a cold one I call my lover to join me, we kiss We toast to those who have walked on! What they brought here, We honor them!
My lover, finally someone who knows about the Little Red Corvette says: Baby, Let’s Dance! And we do We are all dancing with you
This needs work, but it is a work in progress – it keeps asking for more and more editing but I want to send it on Day of the Dead – All Saints cycle of time. I am.
honoring a few teachers and guides who left this dimension. You might wonder what Kate Spade has to do with the others in this list for me. I was so saddened by her story – that I went to write a prayer for her – and this is what came out. So call it poetic license.
Each one of these deaths greatly impacted me in different ways. I felt like I could keep writing about more people I loved and lost, but for now, stopping here. I mean no disrespect to the art of any one I have shared about here. I wrote it right after Bourdain and Spade left but didn’t feel ready to share. Today on November 1 as many of us honor our ancestors, I felt called.
Oh and, please, get out to vote…Sending blessings to you, where you are…
