07-01-2013, 12:19 AM
"I Dreamed I Saw Hendrix Playing The Banner"
I dreamed I saw Hendrix, early on a Monday.
The crowd was a fraction of yesterday's glory.
Rain-soaked mud anointed those of us who stayed.
Jimi looked at the crowd, but he seemed not to care.
Some Gods do not require the worship of the masses
before setting them free.
"I see we meet again," he said, before his pick got dirty.
Electricity filled the air, his long black fingers whipping
the frets with the strings of his Fender. I've never
heard a woman moan in such a tantric manner.
He takes words from Dylan, then parts the
Red Sea with with his own melodic punch.
When he played The Star Spangled Banner,
The Vietnam War played out in his notes.
A mother heard wailing over the body of her dead
Child screamed out in torturous and merciless
Bending of three guitar strings.
The sound of bombs falling through the air
Whistled with the choking compression
Of his tremolo bar.
In a sweltering Asian base camp, a radio is
Playing the music of Jimi. It sends the Cherries
To a different place, if only for a minute.
In a damp open field in Bethel,
His music takes us to the place they
Are trying to forget, intertwining our open
Field with their dense jungle, our mud
With their mud - our music, their hymn.
When he left the stage, it was high noon.
The sun shined bright over mud that had
Dried on my feet, hands, and face. When I
awoke, forty years had passed, but 27
Is immortal; he lives in dreams filled with
Mud and war.
I dreamed I saw Hendrix, early on a Monday.
The crowd was a fraction of yesterday's glory.
Rain-soaked mud anointed those of us who stayed.
Jimi looked at the crowd, but he seemed not to care.
Some Gods do not require the worship of the masses
before setting them free.
"I see we meet again," he said, before his pick got dirty.
Electricity filled the air, his long black fingers whipping
the frets with the strings of his Fender. I've never
heard a woman moan in such a tantric manner.
He takes words from Dylan, then parts the
Red Sea with with his own melodic punch.
When he played The Star Spangled Banner,
The Vietnam War played out in his notes.
A mother heard wailing over the body of her dead
Child screamed out in torturous and merciless
Bending of three guitar strings.
The sound of bombs falling through the air
Whistled with the choking compression
Of his tremolo bar.
In a sweltering Asian base camp, a radio is
Playing the music of Jimi. It sends the Cherries
To a different place, if only for a minute.
In a damp open field in Bethel,
His music takes us to the place they
Are trying to forget, intertwining our open
Field with their dense jungle, our mud
With their mud - our music, their hymn.
When he left the stage, it was high noon.
The sun shined bright over mud that had
Dried on my feet, hands, and face. When I
awoke, forty years had passed, but 27
Is immortal; he lives in dreams filled with
Mud and war.