Loose, lonely. Sunday morning,
I never go to church. Don’t want
that stuff at all. Put the blues on
instead — devil music. Good for
what ailed you last night. Good for
a bit of the hair of the dog buffet
soundtrack.
There was a fight I remember,
a drink or nine, a big tease, bad late food.
Blues night means a blues morning.
Different blues though, no dancing
or hip swing; sit around on the still ass
and be loose, lonely, alone.
Stop
breaking down, song says. Stop
breaking down — hell knows I’d like to
break upward but it doesn’t work
that way. I’m no wave
hitting a cliff. I’m no uplift fan
and I don’t need a Jesus to call me
to rise again. I’m used to resurrection
on Sundays. And I harrow Hell
on Saturdays, so a bent note feels right,
like the plow hitting a rock or bone
in its passage to make a fertile ready field.
The Gospel isn’t all that clear
to people like me
who rock between good and bad.
It calls us, but it calls us all sinners.
I’m no sinner, Jesus, you nag.
I’m just loose
and lonely, trying to finish up this world clean
on my own, maybe catch
a few more hours of sleep
before dark at some point today.
The blues is devil music? No,
this is surely some God-promised lullaby singing to me:
things are tough, tough for all,
a little music gets you through it,
and damned if a blue note doesn’t feel firm
and easier to hang onto
when you get it between
your filmy, Saturday night teeth.
Good for what ails you. Hair
of the crossroads dog, if you ask me.
Dark Matter 