still life 
with rockabilly:

early morning after
hair’s a stiff mess
boots still on
they must stink but
inside ’em
toes are

still tappin’

Clean look,
dirty sound.
Simple as water
over stones,

built to be
capable of 
peeling paint
and then brushing on

a transparency
that reveals
the grain
and nothing else.

Keep the 
the volume up high enough
and the tone will 
take care of itself.

One chord
tells you
everything you need
to know.

It’s strong
up against you
and the vibrating
might not stop,

not ever.  All
your chakras are shaking
from root
to crown 

and with that chord
a song was just born
so there’s no choice now
but to take this home 

and play along.

Texas bluesmen,
we used to say, were the
sharply dressed
razor laser player exceptions
to our rule —

the worse they dress,
the better they play —

said rule exemplifed
one night in our local club
by Wayne Bennett,
master of strings for Bobby Blue Bland,
playing with a pickup band,
destroying us with his hollowbody
while dressed in non matching
polyester plaid pants and jacket.

Texas bluesmen dressed better,
played well, played really well,
but Wayne Bennett was better —
Wayne Bennett, from Oklahoma.

That night Wayne Bennett
in mismatched jacket and pants
looked right at me,
chewed gum
and nodded while he played
“Stormy Monday.”

I’ve dressed terribly
ever since,
still hoping for
that non-Texan lightning
to strike me
though I’m starting to believe
that clothes don’t always
make the man.

Headsmack:

guitar chords, drums,
bass, a vocal, lyrics
smart enough
or stupid enough:
no more, no less.

Mood dependent:

might approve a keyboard,
horn, second vocal,
lead guitar.

Mood adjacent:

get big, get busy
with every polyrhythm
polyamorous for all
other sounds.  Balalaika,
bouzouki, bodhran,
zither, timbale, woodblock.

Mood shifter:

fingers, strings,
no voice.  Let’s hear
ladders, let’s hear ascent
and descent upon
a fretted neck.

If there’s no mood at all

what’s needed,
what comes to mind,
is interstellar space,
travel to
Pure Land on
pure mind:
saxophone chasm Tesseract,
points A and B
peaks in a range,
hurtling all of the in between
in one leap.

The Hammond organ:
wet wide brush,
thick colors. Warm
tones.

Fender P-Bass:
smacks down dark hues,
richer, deeper, rounder
shapes.

Telecaster:
pointillist stinger
chattering spatter
patterns everywhere.

Ludwig kit with
an old Gretsch snare:
possibly, under the paint,
an ancient figure rising?

Let the baritone sax
call it out,
all-dimensioned,
sketching then filling in details.

Remind me, please:
why do we need a singer?
Why frame this work
that already works so well unframed?

I’m pretending to be
a bad band
silenced by changing tastes

sitting round mourning the fads
of the record industry
and the general public

scheming publicity stunts
and abrupt shifts in musical direction
under the guise of experimentation and growth

or perhaps instead actually thinking 
and planning experimentation and growth
as inspired by changing musical directions

knowing that no one
will believe the latter
makes for bitter blather

I pretend I’m a bad band
because the alternative
is to face myself as a bad man

and know that no one else
can possibly have my back
when it comes to reinvention

A dead man is singing and playing.
It happens all the time.
It has now for some years.
Since the phonograph.
Not long at all.
Used to be it never happened.
It’s kind of a new thing.
No wonder we fear zombies.
We have them here on record.
Have them on film.
They move, they sing, they never leave.
How are we supposed to miss them?
We want a proper moment with their absence.
Want to call this feeling grief.
Want to call it mourning.
If you’re dead you’re dead Jimi Hendrix.
Stay dead.
Stay a legend.
Don’t keep up the Zombie Franchise!
However much adored this is.
However much goddamn good this is.
However much good this does to hear it.
We would have gotten by without it.
We would have gotten over the loss at some point.
Don’t like loving it.
Loving it anyway.
It appears they aren’t gone.
Like they never left.
Hear them out there.
Like a train whistle off a ways.
Hear my train a comin’.
Hear my train go by.
A dead man playing real live blues.
I hear my angel fly.