Saturday, March 18, 2006

The Blues and Mr. Johnson

The blues linger in my head
Like dust kicked up by a breath
Spit down by the high noon sun...
Makes a man seek shelter and
A cool drink, some courage to face the night...
But the song slithers,
Searches for the beaten heart,
Caresses and cares for,
Lulls to sleep with firewater and swayin' hips...
The beat of a shaman in a asphalt jungle
Pokes and prods this white Czech-Irish boy
To run...Run headlong into the dream
The soul that born the violence,
The sufferin', the blues...
Blurred vision of beat prophet with
No teeth, guitar in lap and a voice
That pours over me like gravel across my face...
Lonely wanderer,
Seer of doom and despair looks up at me
Sitting there in my uncomfortible chair and
I swear I saw the blues leap out of that ancient sage
Stand up on the stage
Let out a hollow, hair-raisin' scream...
Walk up to me like a man and then punched me out for the night.*

*(the first night I saw U.P. Wilson and Robert Ealey at the Bluebird)


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