Argentina, stop flirting with Panamanian penguins, someone holds your keys; lose control, dance a jig and boogie down Silk City’s Main Street, the haunted avenue of Jacob Cheney, George Marlow and the coolest of the cool crying for you — James M. Emmerling. Yes your way home is in all directions directed. Walk with me, talk with me, play your guitar, sing a tune and make it snappy, the throng of thongs and literary lunacy are sure to swoon, breakout in tears past the straight line of all the years. Dig it. Groove with it. Snap your fingers; curl your toes, so it goes in the search of James M. Emmerling. What goes? We go and you go tracing foot-tapping foot-dragging footsteps – James M’s, not mine.
Yes, I heard it through the grapevine. That’s how I knew in the gray of the morning the road to choose had two lanes of miracles passing each other within the secrets of the soul. Wow, Argentina, it’s not in the way you say, it’s in the way you deliver the answer to a thousand living questions. James M. Emmerling: What’s he like, does he smell, can he dance the two-step? H’mm… well a man ain’t supposed to cry over scrambled eggs.
Ladies, throng of the thongs and the birds in the tree, there are mountains and rivers James M. knows; he eats rattlesnakes for dinner and his years ago are now written words of where time is nothing but flowers and you got it if you get it in triple scores and duck pins rolling on the floor. Take time Argentina. Dance to the possibility and fermented fragments of folly while rebel yelling past the Tasmanian crossroads and riversides.
Ordinarily human with human plans and robot dreams, James M. is a honky-tonk man lost in Dylan and chocolate chip cookies; he nature’s way of telling you to the listen to the music while shuffling your feet looking so fine like a night owl in morning’s flight. Yes, he runs naked through the park, stops at stop signs in the dark and meows with the best of them. When he talks, munchkins listen. When he cries, rivers stop flowing.
Hush… hush… that’s James M. Emmerling singing your song. He’s rock star cool on a Goodwill budget. And how he writes, pure genius mixed with Carver and Blake. So don’t cry for him Argentina, his wild days and mad existence are nothing more than fodder and plot twists. As he told me, “Chuck, it used to be so easy to give my heart away, but I found out the hard way, there's a price you have to pay… so many years… now in the empty space of my heart… I found out I should have known time after time… and I still got the blues for balloons.”
Yes, he's a man who's paid his first subscription with all kinds of condensation measured in sentimental value stored in a cool dark place.