Once I watched an artist
paint a bullet hole
an entryway in
I stood in front of it
and felt the air
raise mountains on my skin
That flesh wound
serenaded me
with a sonnet I already knew by heart
See, the blues is a hole
in your soul
that you can’t fill
So you rock
from your center
to soothe the injured parts of yourself
You sing
just to push the wind
through that long, dark tunnel
"Baby please don't go, baby please don't go
baby please don't go, down to New Orleans
you know I love you so."
Without a witness
a song might as well be whistled to oneself
and I whistle a different tune every day
Ten thousand whistles
can feel
like a hurricane
But it takes a hurricane
to redirect
the fourcefull course of a bullet
So if you know the words
then fill your lungs
with round after round
Spit blustery machine gun gusts
Aim for wisdom and wishes
Sling lyrics of faith and falicy
When the sound comes out, it will be yours
but you might also find
that it doesn’t just belong to you
Solo parts are plucked
from the belly
of an ancestral choir
The blues is poetry reincarnated
and vice versa
hence the vice in the verses
Paintings are life lessons
Asking questions
that have no answers
Only gifting us songs to sing
I pray that mine may be a balm
for someone elses soul
"Turn your lamp down low
You turn your lamp down lowTurn your lamp down low, I cried all night longNow baby please don't go