Good Love

"One way or another I'm gonna find you; what we have is good love"

Crowded on a bed on a New York afternoon in June, the artist, the performer, the lover and I wrote a song, the day Michael Jackson passed.
The lover passed as well.

Two days after, I was sent home to Los Angeles with no "good love". No love.
Hmmmm...

Today, three weeks in to my experiment of feast or famine, I realize it was "bad love."

Not bad as in evil or dark. Just bad, as in gone bad. White powder love doesn't last. White bread love.

How do you know when it's good?
You never really do. At least I don't.
So, god bless the little ones that meet and greet and propose and say yes and invite and combine and unify until death says die..

They said Michael died with Mother's Milk in his veins. He needed good love. He thought he found it. White, liquid and like a little baby, he took what he was given. No questions. No distrust. Just good love.

How do you know when you're being looped?
By man, by bread, by bye birdie.
Nuff said.
How do you know when the milks gone bad.
Don't drink. Think. Think. Think. Think.
I never think. I do and then I'm done for.

But I'm a sucker. A sucker for love. A sucker for pain. A sucker for hysteria.
I get my kicks at Chelsea and 8th.

Because, it was a glorious afternoon in June. The artist and I started the group off. She pulled out her electric piano and started a beat. I hummed along and phrased "good love" over and over against her chords. The performer began to follow along with her sultry melody and the lover strummed on his guitar standing over three muses as we all harmonized in unison. "What we have is good love, what we have is good love, what we have is good love, what we have is good love."

Sounds beautiful doesn't it.
Sounds like a little dream. Young artists making sweet music in the afternoon.
Singing about love and smoking and drinking beers on the fire escape.
Sounds just perfect doesn't it.

Well that's all well and good but that's not "good love."
My lover white bread said "you'll miss this, nutritious."
Do I really miss this?
I think I miss what I think I had. But I had no such thing. At least not what I was preaching to have had.."good love..good love...good love"

And when I walked around New York the following day, I could hear Jackson's voice from every window, every bicycle, every bar and every corner bodega.
Dirty Diana made me cry in a cab over to my very last supper with the lover.
And yes, I was sentimental.
And yes, I was surprised.
And yes, I was unprepared for the good love to go bad.

But I am no new comer to the ups and downs of love.
I am no child when it comes to moving on and I am willing to believe in the little ones that meet and greet and propose and say yes and invite and combine and unify until death says die..

But until I become one of the little ones,
I will break bread with friends. Maybe I'll fly away to Chelsea again and sit on the bed with the artist and the performer and no lover. And maybe we'll sing and smoke and drink beers on the fire escape without good love....

Or I'll just write another song about another dinner and I'll feel much better.