Sammy Davis in the Nevada desert,
an acrobat dancer's heel-clackin leap,
arms extended, all lines aligned,
alive, communicating, correct-
a perfect instant of unmitigated dash.
Ahh, sweet Sammy.
Candy Man. Sportin' Life.
Mixed it all with love,
made the world taste good.
This I think by way of an ad
for the unseen Barton/Depp version
of Dahl's Willie Wonka.
It inspired me to revisit the '71
Wilder incarnation of the candy-man
in a world of pure imagination;
the origin of that sun-drenched song
I've just learned to play and sing.
The nineties;
I'd been promoted, then-
serially invited to
a slew of weddings
as a dear friend's escort.
The combination led to an era
where I regularly wore
a collared shirt and tie,
often a sportcoat.
A co-worker commented,
" You look good in clothes."
Reminded me of an Updike octatagenarian
who'd reminisced to her rapt granddaughter
'bout her evaporated success with men,
" I'd a good figure, could dance
and I looked good in clothes."
It was about allowing
the idea of clothes
to fall more entirely from me.
Allow/express essential self,
beyond sartorial habitudes,
outgrow an adolescent
anti-establishment
phobia to "dressing up"-
come unbundled of
an immature, reactionary
perhaps fascist fashion sense.
It worked; I think.
I don't think much now,
nor stress, 'bout how I dress;
more than less a good Laertes-
"Costly (my) habit as (my) purse can buy,
But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy."
In 2006 San Francisco,
'bout a block from City Lights Books,
I'm having a beer and
thinking bout the Beats;
swarthy Jack in that
same khakis campaign,
BAR in neon spelled behind;
smart, a bit too arrogant,
probably somewhat drunk.
Been standing next
to this dour faced Brit
fifteen minutes and
haven't met his eyes
much less uttered a word
his silence seeming quite closed.
I lift my glass, say,
" Cheers, mate."
"Cheers.
What YOU dressed up for?"
"Nothing, mate. Nothing."
Unthinkingly dressed in
black blazer,white oxford and khakis,
I listen as young musicians
(mostly otherwise ignored)
produce competent,
pleasant music: Jazz.
The TV's on,
several men are seated,
hunched and huddled
about a felt-topped table,
playing high stakes poker
on the sports channel.
Professional flicker of eyes,
forcefully flattened aspects,
close cupped hands guarding cards.
Sport?
Polonius was pompous,
comical, tragical, tragi-comical,
bound, doomed and destined
for an early date with dust-
but his fatherly advice was sound.
"Rich not gaudy"
"Tender yourself more dearly"
I've naught to do with cufflinks.
The Ratpack likely did;
The Beats? Likely not.
I don't want to win
the million dollar pot,
calculate the odds,
compete, make the bluffs,
take the pains.
I don't play it close to the vest,
(sure, call me chump)
nothing up these sleeves
save arms replete
with blood-plump veins.
Every time
I lead with hearts,
my one,
my only,
always, trump.
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