The relish in her grin
as she tore off bits of bread
and tossed them to the bickering geese,
while we talked,
was my drug of choice.
And that tiniest gap,
between her hip and the waist of her jeans,
that fell open then closed, open then closed,
as we walked,
was my pornography.
Man, I got them old-school blues,
like Mamie Smith and Langston Hughes.
But ain’t no blues no more, they shout. Them days is come and gone!
So long as no one’s lovin’ me, my pain will find a song.
Now I can’t say that ol’ Jim Crow is why I’m feelin’ blue,
Or all I’ve got’s a pair of socks and not one Goddamn shoe.
And I can’t cry, White-man, set me free!
Don’t mean there’s no chains shacklin’ me.
And no, my baby isn’t gone.
Didn’t have no baby all along.
I got them old school blues, y’know,
could tear the eyes of Johnny Lo.
Like every maple sugar child, once linked by ankle chain,
who lost his way a while ago, and now is lookin’ vain.
It’s gotten now that I’m too proud to get down on bended knee
and put my faith in anything, especially me.
But someday soon we’ll be cut loose,
with voices booming, Justice! Truth!
to find that good thing in our hearts,
and ends this scramblin’ in the dark.
‘Til then I got them old school blues,
like Tutwiler and Baton Rouge.
For all the folks who can’t make rent,
–and not just ’cause the money’s spent–
who feed them hungry, waitin’ eyes,
that live the blues between the sighs,
the blues ain’t got no power ‘cept to give your woes a voice.
And bein’ blue or fightin’ through ain’t nothin’ but a choice.
So again, like way back when that first cat felt the blues, I’ll say,
Let’s just keep a-risin’ til them old blues go away!
(Mississippi John Hurt image from: http://www.theguitarlesson.com/guitar-lesson-blog/blues-guitar-lessons/20-most-influential-and-best-blues-guitarists/ Old man snoozing image from: http://www.historicalstockphotos.com/details/photo/2122_old_man_sleeping_on_porch.html)
She sits in a cream-colored latte shop trimmed with green
(The kind I hate profoundly but makes a good cup of joe.)
Paperback in hand, her eyes
Glide across the page like a skater on ice.
Not digging deeper and not being touched.
It’s a best seller; has to be! The die is cast the mold is set
In this trendy house of idle skimming chatter
Her smart blue suit and black-rimmed spectacles cannot lie.
The evening is warm, just a notch above balmy. And there she sits
Looking at words she’ll never love
Her mind in a dozen fractured bits, colliding receding rolling about
It’s the ideal life, I suppose
A chariot built by the sons of Charlemagne
Robes by the daughters of Caesar
A good book, a cappuccino with all the trimmings,
A rose-hued sky taut above fat, marshmallow clouds that hang
Like strewn rocks suspended in a frozen moment
And there she sits, sipping occasionally
Athena caged! A tornado ensnared!
As far from distraught as content
Listlessness hovering over her face
Unable to hide
Oh Hera, was a silent tongue thy undoing,
Some filial acquiescence to an overbearing father’s vicarious demands,
The guilt imparted by a weary mother who’d had her fill of impulse and whim?
When, I wonder,
Did your muse put the lyre to rest?
An oblivious sip and shift in her chair,
An upward glance,
And Isis vanishes behind a broad smile
(All except a glimmer maybe only I can see)
Venus rises
To embrace a far cry from Lancelot
Broad shoulders and a fancy suit with a fresh haircut
A nose-job and a couple of love-handles shy of a nauseating commercial
And Mórrígan, my dear, sweet Mórrígan is gone
The veneer had jelled and hardened
And my mirror
(funny as it was)
fades away
