Carol, Carol, Carol Dean,
you're truly
your father’s daughter,
never satisfied
with the obvious,
bend, twist, shape
things as one will,
where does one find
"original"
when there's nothing new
under the sun?
Carol, Carol, Carol Dean,
recalling you
is like a dream,
Like a princess,
goddess or beauty queen
it was always a good day
when you made the scene,
in either place,
it was always nice
to see your smiling face.
Youthful beauty, N.Y. proud,
in your face attitude,
laugh out loud,
sometimes bitch,
but always so gracious
hard to tell
which way was which.
I'm not sure quite
how to respond to you,
although close by,
a world apart,
how thoughtful and kind
of you to address
us as family,
but what is the tie
that binds us together?
None the less
to your sentiments
I'll acquiesce
and hold the idea
of family
as sacred ground
and give you some room
to play around.
As I saw it,
a week-end warrior
you were at best
when Dean's patience
you'd too far test,
a day or two
on the kitchen
or service crew,
as I recall,
but you could always
just walk away
from it all,
back to the trailers
to repent,
how easily by you
Dean could be bent.
I think that's just
the way it should be,
first born daughter,
apple of his eye,
when push came to shove,
all he could do was sigh.
Funny how you came
to be center of this thread,
it was of you and Paul
I thought when I chose
the name "Mooseheade".
You may think this odd
but for a while
there I was
as two souls in one,
let me tell you
about this one.
Perhaps you'll recall
that frigid winter night
when Paul crashed
into that giant, old moose
on the road,
breaking its legs
and crushing its bones,
leaving the wretched thing
to drag itself
off into the woods,
bellowing in pain
all the way,
trying to just get away,
to mend his life on its own.
That wasn't enough
in itself for it to suffer,
but Paul felt obliged
to put the beast
"out of his misery",
his mercy came
in the form of a gun,
how every shot
was a thunderous roar,
a sledge hammer blow
to the poor beast’s skull,
smashing and crashing
but bringing no peace,
only more torment
to this poor tortured beast,
30+6 shots
of his 9mm pistol,
that's how many shots
he deployed into the head
of that moose,
he cut that animal
every way
but loose,
still the beast would not die,
with every shot,
louder it cry.
He had the good sense
at least,
to bring the game warden
back the next day,
after that creature
had dragged itself
even further away,
on its broken crushed legs
it crawled
almost two miles
deeper into the woods,
bellowing and moaning
from deep primal wounds,
sounds that could be heard
from a mile away,
blinded by agony
and lead,
did you know he shot
out his eyes?
That poor beast screamed,
still it wanted to stay alive,
but it knew death had come,
and rear up as it could,
he tried to defend
his shattered, broken home
where it's spirit still lived,
but it took only one shot
from that warden’s rifle,
a 30.06.
The "coup de grace"
if you will,
and that great broken beast
finally lay still.
Well disembodied as it was,
the spirit of that moose
followed Paul
back to the Hall,
and that was
a new beginning
for that moose's spirit,
freed as it were
from its mortal cage,
there it found me,
a prisoner,
slave to the belief
of promises
and good intentions,
of help from loved ones,
friends, "family"
and other loving ties
and lies,
the twisted reality therapy
of primal screams,
how a person could be
so personally impersonal
still haunts my dreams.
I gave that spirit
shelter in my heart,
I came to know
the thoughts and feelings
of that moose's spirit,
and he mine,
and we could
empathize
reciprocally
most all of the time.
He showed me how
to be free to wander
or just lounge about,
how to be embraced
by loving earth's nature,
of this there's no doubt,
I showed it how to live
without a life,
to tolerate the injustice,
to live without a home,
it was for some time
there the two of us
did roam.
For many years
anger and revenge
was our tomb,
but all that's diminished
and were headed
for home.
Each shot
to that beast’s head
was as a month
I spent there,
like some warped version
of "Gilligans Island"
where a 3 hour tour
turned into
more than 3 years
of incarceration
and constant
consternation.
So here I am again
just venting my spleen,
I suppose with a change
of vision
things could differently
be seen,
I could also drag on
like that tormented poor beast,
but I think I'll stop here
with the least amount said,
and just keep trying
to heal the wounds
in my own head.
Although you've invited me
to "bring it on,"
I'll just take that
as the republican in you,
I'm not trying to make
any "Taliban stew,"
I'm not at war
and have no quarrel with you.
Like a movie star
you could light up that place,
but to this day
it's your grandfathers face
I see when I recall
any true goodness
from that place,
it was he I know
that had the most grace.
He taught me skills
that I use to this day,
but more important than that
from him
I know you,
and the rest of the clan,
now there was a really good man.
He revealed his true nature
and inner strength
and showed that it was
depth of character
that would really
put all troubles to rest,
he was a good, godly man,
and when all's said and done,
it's him
I remember from there
the most,
not that of some moose's
sad, wounded ghost.
Be well always,
with your best interest
at heart,
from these visions
of the past,
I hope soon to part.
-- Mooseheade --