Beyond the Yellow Brick Road
As a young’un playing "Goodbye
Yellow Brick Road" on piano, howl-
ing, "You can't lock me in your pent-
house, I'm going back to my plow,"
I banged the chords loud enough
to scare prairie dogs outside,
if not cattle in stockyards several
fields of alfalfa, yucca, and cotton-
wood trees down the dirt road that
passed our house. High school cowboy
culture had a propriety every bit as
persnickety as the high fallutin’ snobbery
of the rich in that song. US High school
could chew you up and spit you out with
tobacco juice right there on the floor
of the bus I had to catch whose tires rose
dust clouds from the road long before the sun
arose. Culture shock tormented me
since our move to the US countryside from city
living in France where trifocals, braces,
nerdiness and all, I’d felt accepted for who
I was in a way that would only confound
the Stetson-hat wearing bus riders that
went to my school. My plow had unearthed
centuries of history in a kaleidoscope of stained
glass, literature great and small, cathedrals
of ancient stone, opera and jazz. My classmates
in France were unconcerned about fashion
for in public school the smocks we wore
atop our clothes concealed differences
of wealth or worldliness. We were just kids
united in learning our lessons, having a laugh
now and again. “Maybe you’ll get a replacement,”
I’d sing full throttle, banging the chords loud,
hoping someone could replace me, let me go
home to France where unorthodox me faced no
fear for ignoring a US conduct code as
stringent as Oz or Hollywood for Judy Garland.
I knew in my heart I’d never fit in. And now,
from my humble apartment, neighbors with kids
and dogs, elderly, disabled, from all nations and
walks of life, my office window looks east towards
the mountain where Elton John lives in France
where after snafus recording,
this album was at last birthed--
like my soul, here beyond
the yellow brick road.
~ pcm
2024-04-03
photo: the view from my office
