and my hair was
too long
and my skin a mess:
people called me
pizza face
and thought they
were being clever.
Never mind that
I had (at least I
thought) the worst
case of acne
in Chicago. So I
dropped out of
high school and
meeting up with
my friends. I
only went
out after dark. And
hotfooted it home
to my small room.
And read at least
1001 library books:
Most were penned
by famous poets. But
I also started to
read biographies
about other
misfits and
outsiders.
And Janis Joplin
(in 1978) was
still up for grabs.
Most straight folks
(apart from those that
believed drugs were
the only way to achieve
Nirvana) seemed
to either
love her or hate her. Big
time. The hard core
Christians especially
loved to use her as an
example of what "sin"
will do to a person.
Given that I was already
damned forever (a ghastly
homosexual!)
I felt protective of
Janis. And identified
with her outcast
status. And I must have
listened to her Greatest
Hits on
8 Track (do you remember
those?) at least a 1002
times.
And read every book about
her I could find. And
my small room was
plastered with Janis posters
(some of them I designed
myself).
Until my world became a
shrine to her memory. And
folks shook their heads,
and were in awe of my respect
for her: "She was just a
drug addict - is that
somebody worth so much
time and effort?" Yes,
I'd say.
Because she put all the
small town bigots to
shame:
The ones that told her
she was ugly and
had no talent:
And guess what? People
are singing a
different
tune now. Even the fools
in Port Arthur, Texas.
Sort of reminds me
of what happened to
Frances Farmer in
Seattle. But
we won't go there
tonight. I'll
save
that for another poem.
All I want to say now
is this:
I am alive today
because of Janis.
She made being a
so-called freak
a beautiful thing:
and puts all those
"perfect" ones to
shame. Because of
her immense courage
and talent. Because of her
pitted (and beautiful)
face.
Because she earned the right to sing the blues.
© 2009 by Dylan Mitchell
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