Poetry by C.R. Behling

Original Poetry
by
Christopher Behling
1965-1994

TO YOUR SPIRIT SET FREE, TO MY FRIEND....

(for Chris)

Eric Lyden

       Nothing came close to riding the stars
            with you my screaming, shining friend,
            such an odd dichotomy, like Ferdinand the Bull;
       the fevered race to write it all down
            became our common ground.
		 We flew through mundane days
            like we were untouchable and unafraid
       and you roared the night down
            like a driven, midnight-dreamer, a pirate, a lover.

       You called my name to follow, to come
            and I tried, God I tried
            but I couldn't keep up.
       I called you our neo-Pan type, walkman-flutist
            frolicking haphazardly but free
            over the fence in the fields far off,
       then I called for you
            "My friend, come back, come back!,"
            but in your wild abandon
            you were so blissful and so beautiful
       I couldn't disturb your ride.

       I remember seemingly endless telephone talks
            turned to morning-coffee words.
       I remember driving in the poetry wagon,
            the white, four-door Mercedes
            -wire hanger for an antennae-
            Kevin howling
            "Get off the grass Chris, you're driving through
                 Santa Monica Park!"
       and you trying to rip the Afro off the homeless man
            convinced that it was fake.
       I remember all of us together and you playing
            'Brown Eyed Girl'
             one bar, STOP, another bar, STOP
             never quite putting it all together
             allowing your own fears to creep in.
       I remember adrenalized and caffeined poetry reads
             with Paul, David, the girls, and all the other poets
             all chanting, LOUD, all of us chanting at the
             Cobalt Cafe.
       And your love of Christmas,
       your love of children,
       and I remember you, with tears in your eyes,
             telling us a story, any story,
             in order to really tell us your love and admiration
                  for your mother and father,
                  the love of your wife,
                  and the genius and innocence of your daughter.
       You'd look me right in the eyes and say,
             Listen man, listen, this is the single greatest piece
             of music ever written.
       So sincere, so serious.
       "Listen to this note, right here, here...
             Do you hear it Eric? Do you! This is it..."
       Or, "Forget that movie, let me tell you about the
             GREATEST movie EVER made on this earth."
       "Bukowski can be brilliant, but most of the time he's the
             worst writer on the face of the earth."
       Whether is was Scorcese, Lynch, Woody Allen, Adrian Belew,
                 Ultravox, Tom Waits, Walken, Hemingway, 
                 Wuthering Heights, or
                 the Grinch,
                 it was always the greatest, the biggest, the best.
             You'd settle for nothing less...

       You our Neal Cassady.
       (An unrefined and pure view of life-
                 I admired you from afar, but didn't dare attempt.)
                 The driver of the bus,
                 the real Beat,
                 the real thing,
                 the midnight HOWL,
                 the articulation in the words,
                 the poetry of life, of the streets, of lust,
                     of sadness and believing,
                        and the insight and biting view, so real
                        God, you were so real,
                 and so beautiful and brilliant,
                     and also overpowering,
                     but alive,
                     so alive.

       You always asked me,
                 "Brother, I have to know, do you really love me?"
       Well, I really do love you, brother.
       And we all love you Chris-
                 our partner,
                 our husband,
                 our brother,
                 our son,
                 and our father,
                 we all really do love you...

       And the winds may blow out words of scorn
                or the seasons my bring coldness and blame
                and the years will become many,
       but no matter what prevails in the air,
                you are my friend,
                Chris, you were always and will always be
                       my friend.