Blue

Kris Kristofferson

Liked his women with an air

Of unrestrained musicality,

As free as the free-spirited

Bobby McGee,

Who pretty much risked her life

Hitching them a ride

(Do you know how many people

Have been murdered that way?),

And expressed her love

Through someone else’s songs,

And exited quietly at stage right

Before he even got to know her,

Without explanation or reflection

(Probably because she soon was murdered…),

Leaving him sorrowful but in love–

The way a good fantasy

Woman does.

 

But when a real woman, self-assured,

Wrote her own sorrowful songs,

Unrestrained by regret or shame,

With the nuance of a self-aware adult

Reflecting upon the men she had loved,

And sharing with us all

An intimacy unparalleled–

The sadness of having a daughter

And not being able to be her mother–

And painting with words

An entirely new picture

Of what being human is really like

–he didn’t find it quite so charming.

 

“God Joni,” he said, “save something for yourself”,

As if he had the right to stop an icon in her tracks,

To tug her back into line,

As if saying that didn’t make him

A supreme ass.

 

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