we drove from here to LA
in total silence
because Ace Enders,
said we should.
of course he talked
for hours,
actually he just screamed
and he did it for hours,
into a cell phone
as he paced around the trailer
in the parking lot of every gas station
from here to LA
he wrote his best songs at his worst.
after the phone calls
with his soul mate,
the women never understand
the artist,
but if she didn’t tear him apart
he never would’ve written those songs
and I wouldn’t have fallen asleep each night
listening to him pick the guitar strings
and singing about the love he would see
when we finally sold enough merch
to fly her
from there to LA
his hair grew long
(he was the converse wearing allstar)
he grew out his beard
(mad whiskers on a mad dog)
somewhere between Wind Gap and Winnemucca
we became a tribe,
and Ace
wore the feathered headdress.
it was never spoken of,
never decided,
but he was the man for that place
and time,
and the other bands knew it too.
we weren’t the headliners
and we didn’t draw the biggest crowds,
but the other bands hushed
when Ace walked into the room,
we all knew we were treading
with a real songwriter.
but HE DIDN’T KNOW IT,
would never accept it,
and I watched him go mad
trying to write
The Book of Love,
and recite it every night
to the girl on the cell phone.
in every parking lot
every gas station
every motel
from here to LA
half the band watched
the karate kid on repeat,
the rest of us read road novels
and listened to Wilco,
but not Ace!
he just stared
and occasionally would jump up and scream
until his face got hot and red
and then he’d quiet down
and start staring again.
in portland
Ace and I jockeyed across the city
to find a post office.
the mental institution had just run our of funds
and all the crazies were living on the streets,
one grabbed Ace’s shirt
and like a zoo animal does when you catch it staring at
you,
he looked right into Ace’s soul,
and said, “I know what you did.”
I knew
that he knew
whatever it was,
no matter how nuts the bum was,
that he really knew
what Ace had done,
even if I didn’t know Ace had ever done anything.
Ace asked me if I thought the bum knew?
I didn’t ask what he had done, but said that the bum
probably did,
but Ace liked attention,
and asked everyone this question
from there to LA
they called him a mad genius
they called him a crazy artist
they called him a possessed songwriter
I’m not really sure of any of those things,
because it took a woman to make him crazy
and a country to drive him insane,
but on monday most people still have to get up and
go to work.
I do know that all it takes to make a beautiful brain
crumble,
is a woman
pushing the ‘ignore’ button
on the other end of the cell phone.
and it can happen in less time
then it takes,
to drive from here to LA