For The Lord of the Highway

I

The Lord of the Highway died this week,

poet, raconteur, honky-tonk hero,

the first person I’d ever heard

*

to blend a West Texas twang

with a punk rock soul

and a rock and roll heart.

*

I was hooked from the first moment I saw him,

on a Halloween night at the Texas Union Ballroom,

hair swept up in a pompadour, wearing a Nudie jacket.

*

My life was falling apart

and I was looking for ways to forget it,

if only for a little while.

*

And that open flame of a man,

bristling with electricity and fearless

to the bone,

*

helped me forget my troubles

when he jumped off the stage, stuck

a microphone in my face,

*

and introduced me to a

girl

named

Cool Rockin’ Loretta.

*

Every time I saw him after that,

solo or full band,

his life-flame was incandescent,

*

inescapable, his talent uncontainable,

leaving stages in ashes everywhere

he performed.

II

My own winter is fast approaching,

and I’m doing my best to keep my own flame

burning bright,

*

following Heaven’s orders to

create, create, and create

some more.

*

I do the best I can, and I know

the drill, why I’m here

and what I’m made of.

*

An eternal soul living a human experience,

made up of stardust and empty space,

tallying up lessons learned and lessons lost.

*

I know when the Lord of the Highway’s

flame snuffed out in the night,

like mine will too, some time, somewhere,

*

we’ll both flare up again

in another time and place

and start the Burn all over again.

*

Maybe I’ll be a better poet

than I am now,

play those guitars a little louder,

*

kill the fear that kept me from singing out

this time around,

kept me from loving as hard as I could have.

*

Stronger, wiser, earned awareness whispering

to pay attention to the inner fires

clearing out the space for something new.