Originally posted 10/5/2012.

Sylvester on the radio sings,

“…YOU MAKE ME FEEL MIGHTY REAL…”

Sylvester is dead. For real.
God only knows how real he now feels.

I am not dead
but I will be sooner rather
than later, 

for real. Getting comfortable with that
is my number one job these days;
I wish I was mighty ready 
to be alone in the night with it. 

When people danced to this
back in Old School
they often danced hand in hand
with Mighty Real Death;

it is in this way
that disco
is a form of blues.

Wish I was ready to dance naked and alone
in the kitchen RIGHT NOW,
but I am neither mighty enough
nor real enough yet,
so back to bed I go to write about realness,
like a damn fool — 

because this is not
how one should die,
flat on a fat ass,
on a bed,
banging a laptop.

“…YOU MAKE ME FEEL MIGHTY REAL…”

This will have to do
until the day when
I finally find myself
dancing into a mirror,
pointing at the sad sack
I’m dancing with, the dance partner
I’ve had all my life, the one 
pointing back at me from the mirror, 
each of us laughing this song
out of our terrified mouths 
as loudly as we can:

“…YOU MAKE ME FEEL…MIIIIGHTY REAL…”

and not stopping
until we fall.

Originally posted 12/17/2010.

From the St. Louis Globe-Democrat, Dec. 26th, 1895:

“William Lyons, 25, a levee hand, was shot in the abdomen yesterday evening at 10 o’clock in the saloon of Bill Curtis, at Eleventh and Morgan Streets, by Lee Sheldon, a carriage driver.

“Lyons and Sheldon were friends and were talking together. Both parties, it seems, had been drinking and were feeling in exuberant spirits. The discussion drifted to politics, and an argument was started, the conclusion of which was that Lyons snatched Sheldon’s hat from his head. The latter indignantly demanded its return.

“Lyons refused, and Sheldon withdrew his revolver and shot Lyons in the abdomen. When his victim fell to the floor Sheldon took his hat from the hand of the wounded man and coolly walked away….

“Lee Sheldon is also known as ‘Stag’ Lee.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

1.

My childhood neighbor
was a fine painter
who painted nothing
but landscapes and barrooms.
In every landscape there was a stream,
in every barroom there was a hat,
in every painting there was a figure
with its back turned,
facing a corner
or a hanging tree.

One night he got drunk,
started screaming about the President,
and shot all his canvases
with a 12-gauge.

Somehow,
no cop gunned him down, 
and he was singing “Stagger Lee”
when they shoved him hard 
into the cruiser.

2.

On Christmas Night, 1895, in a St. Louis bar,
Billy Lyons and Stag Lee
were arguing over politics.
Billy fell gut shot by Stag,
eventually died, and
they put themselves on the hit parade
forever.

There was rumor back then that Stag
was a sheriff’s bastard son
and no one dared touch him.
It was a fact that he was a Black man
but a myth that he got away with murder —

he went to jail
but didn’t swing,
didn’t die for it before arrest,
or before a judge could have his say.

3.

The moon was yellow,
the leaves came tumbling down.

I remember hearing
my neighbor call out,
“Sheriff,
you son of a bitch,
keep your hands off
my damn hat,”

and thought I saw
a lean ghost in the shadows
making sure
the man was safe before
he coolly walked away
humming that sacred song.

Originally posted 10/4/2013.

A beautiful Saturday night in the city:

a punk fan
spits up on a classic rock fan
in front of a disco
and a country fan turns up her nose
at the hard, hard house music
her date seems to prefer.

A jazz fan hurries past everyone
because no one likes a jazz fan
except for the reggae fans — they
love everyone, mostly.  Mostly —

except for that guy
with “Tosca” leaking
from his earbuds.  

Meanwhile on the corner
two surprising kids
are committing a bluegrass murder,
hoping for spare change in the hat.

There’s a hint of bhangra in the air
and a hint of merengue in the air
and a hint of calypso and soca and mento
and someone’s got a ska torch lit too;

it’s a beautiful Saturday night
in the clamoring city,
making you wish
you could play everything
whenever you close your eyes.

Originally posted 2/7/2013.

I give a sorrow
opening.  I
loose it on
a gap within. Soon come

ornery, tantrum, layabout and cry.
Going to victim this whole long day:
grow kudzu, a funeral bouquet
for neverending grief show.

Still, I got rocker hips,
roller hips, jazz groin and jazz lips:,
joy ends up somewhere
when pushed from head and heart.

Still, I end up one sad grinder.  
End up bad into more bad sinking,
but still with one way
to set it off and hold it back — and so,

on to music. Still in the hole, I give
my dance, my bad, my deep
some resistance. Rhythm’s a big mole digging in 
under the roots, a charged up winner

rubbling the dark; my earthly body
quakes cracking in the light.  Whenever
I, frightened, shake fear, I gotta dance
my dance, my bad, my deep — 

it’s my gotta happen.

Originally posted 10/12/2008; original title, “Hearing Slapbak On A Sunday.”

Invitation to Sparkle City.
The bass a friendly hand opening the door.
The groove shuffling me along to comfort
with a shout to someone unseen
to break out sweet tea and a good meal. 

It’s not much — no,
it’s everything. It’s church
softer than any formal pew,
warming me top to bottom 
on no more 
than an ember. 
Big pillow for a sad head,

holding me like a cradle I never had;
this is no offer I can ever refuse.

Originally posted 12/11/2012.

“he didn’t leave much to ma and me just this old guitar and an empty bottle of booze”   — s. silverstein

if you thought it was written by Johnny Cash
you are forgiven a little

if you thought he was telling the truth 
you are forgiven a little more

if you hate your name too and all you have to fight it with
is your missing bad ass dad’s old guitar

you are not only forgiven everything
you are blessed

and you should forgive me
for everything I am about to say

“they’re dead wrong I know they are cause I can play this here guitar”  — weill, mann, lieber & stoller

marvel at how it took four people
to write one line

about a truth every 16 year old
with a death grip on a maple neck

learns by osmosis
from the first chord

“well I got this guitar and I learned how to make it talk”  — b. springsteen

interrogate your guitar till it owns up
to things you have never done

“the bitter comes out better on a stolen guitar”  — d. bowie

you tell me: if you’ve not yet stolen a guitar
have we even seen your bitter

“your guitar it sounds so sweet and clear but you’re not really here it’s just the radio”  l. russell

dream yourself into being a ghost superstar
by dint of broadcast ominpresence

but even the superstars will tell you
that in fact

in truth and real life
we end up most often alone

in a small room with wood and wire 
pen paper bone pain and joy

this is
what that thing does to you

welcome and
don’t say you weren’t warned