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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 7, Number 4, December 2013

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Steven Carter
Tucson, Arizona, USA


Opus 33

This is the end, beautiful friend, the end . . .

—Jim Morrison’s thin baritone from the Doors’ first and best album of nearly 50 years ago—

He’s buried in Paris—in Pere Lachaise cemetery, in the faster company of Balzac, Chopin, Oscar Wilde, and Heloise and Abelard.

Morrison: dead of a drug overdose at 27, same age as Mama Cass, Amy Winehouse, Jimi Hendrix, Brian Jones, Curt Cobain, Janis Joplin, and a handful of others—all wrecked on the shoals by drugs.

No need for drugs or even booze on a day like this: when a fume of poppies from flower-sellers on Rue de Repos makes me think of the sleepy fields of Oz.

Laughter and flowers up and down the Rue: and for syncopation, a pale day moon becoming tipsy as, chilling at an outdoor café, I swirl it to and fro in my glass of chardonnay.

—polite waiter bit of a disappointment

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