02-22-2018, 01:23 PM
(2nd rev.)
Tallulah, Louisiana,
endless fields
with baby-
elephant-ear
tobacco leaves,
hanging shreds
of cotton
and tangerines.
I knock
on a paint-peeled door;
shuffling, rustlings
inside the shotgun shack.
A white-haired man,
pipe, dark glasses,
cracks open the door.
Sorry to bother you,
they tol’ me
further down
you’re a guitar player
tol’ me
you make the box talk.
I got one here,
you wanna
give it a workout?
What you drinkin?
What’s your pleasure?
I won’t say no to gin.
Done.
I’ll be right back.
………………………………
Lucille’s laying out
on the rumpled bed,
reed-thin,
in a thin flower-print,
blue and white dress,
face down, still.
Blind Son
holds my Martin,
tunes to open,
takes a Prince Albert can
off a shelf,
slides it up and down
the strings.
They whine and cry.
Shor do lahk this gitah.
He speaks gently
to Lucille, wakes her
from half-sleep,
asks her to sing
“one ‘a the ol’ ones.”
She rolls over
on her back
and in barely audible voice
born in honky-tonks
and roadhouses,
she sets time dancing
in booze delirium .
Soft tones,
melisma
jazzed into spaces
between pain
and wonder,
joy and betrayal,
floating memories
of dance halls
and protective,
mean,
boyfriends.
Lying there,
she introduces me
to a blues-land cyclone
people carry all week,
released every Saturday night
from dusk to daylight;
doin’ tha Cakewalk,
tha Shimmy, Swingout,
tha Buzzard Lope.
Slingin’ barbecue,
gamblers’ cards
on the table,
whiskey an’ homebrew
flowin.’
She sings time
into enduring,
generous strokes
of celebration,
joy borne out of
brutal history.
Her ancestors move
ghostly limbs
in languorous gestures
of survival.
I’m quiet
as she turns back over.
I’ve lost words
for what I’ve heard.
I summon up:
Lucille, I hope
you’re feelin’ better
soon.
“Better awready, son”
I leave the guitar behind.
Christmas-day, 1972,
Tallulah, Louisiana;
I walk through frosty fields,
sprawling boundlessly
with baby elephant-ear
tobacco leaves, shreds of cotton,
and tangerines, to a shambled row
of pickers’ shotgun houses.
I knock on a paint-peeled door;
a short, white-haired man,
with a pipe and dark glasses,
cracks open the door.
They tol’ me, up tha street,
you’re a guitar player, tol’ me
you make the box talk.
I got one here, you wanna
give it a workout?
What you drinkin?
What’s your pleasure?
I won’t say no to gin.
Done.
Be right back.
………………………………
Lucille’s laying out, reed-thin,
on the rumpled bed, body still.
Blind Son takes my Martin,
and tunes to open,
takes a Prince Albert can
off a shelf, slides it up an’ down the strings;
they whine and cry, like Robert Johnson’s
when the devil tuned it at the crossroads,
Highway 8 an’ 1.
Blind Son beams out:
Oh, man, ah lahk
this gitah.
He speaks gently to Lucille,
asks her to sing “one ‘a the ol’ ones.”
She rolls over on her back
and with with a barely audible voice,
born in honky-tonks
and roadhouses,
sets time dancing, in booze delirium.
Soft, Billie Holiday tones,
women’s blues, jazzed into spaces
between pain and wonder,
floating memories of dance halls
and over-protective, mean,
boyfriends,
Lying there, she introduces me
to a blues-land cyclone
that people carry all week,
released every Saturday night,
from dusk til well past daylight,
doin’ tha cakewalk,
tha shimmy, swingout, tha buzzard lope;
slingin’ barbecue, cards, whiskey
homebrew flowin.’
“Dance all night, dance tha night
ta mornin,’ shut tha door,
dance some more.”
She sings time into enduring,
generous strokes of celebration,
her ancestors move ghostly limbs
in languorous gestures of survival.
I leave Blind Son the guitar,
and tell my new favorite singer:
Lucille, I hope you’re feelin’ better
soon.
“Better awready, suh’.”
(orig.)
Christmas-day,
Tallulah, Louisiana;
I walk through
frosty fields,
sprawling boundless
with baby elephant-ear
tobacco leaves,
picked-over cotton
and tangerines,
to a shambled row
of pickers’
shotgun houses.
I knock
on a paint-slivered door,
and hear shuffling,
rustling, inside.
A short,
white-haired man,
pipe, dark glasses,
cracks open the door.
They told me,
up tha street,
you’re a guitar player,
tol’ me
you make the box talk.
I got one here,
you wanna
give it a workout?
What you drinkin?
What’s your pleasure?
I won’t say no to gin.
Done.
Be right back.
………………………………
Lucille’s laying out,
willowy reed-thin,
on the rumpled bed;
no signs from her.
Blind Son
takes my Martin,
and proceeds
to stroke,
hammer,
and fondle it;
sounds come out of it
in disbelief, but
no hesitation,
knee deep in cotton,
where they started out
back in slave days.
He tunes to open,
takes a Prince Albert can
off a shelf,
slides it
up an’ down
the strings;
they whine and cry,
like Robert Johnson’s
when the devil
tuned it up strange
at the crossroads,
Highway 8 an’ 1,
to a sound
unheard before.
Blind Son beams out:
Oh, man, ah lahk
this gitah.
He speaks gently
to Lucille,
asks her
to sing “one ‘a
the ol’ ones.”
She rolls over
on her back
and commences to
knock me out,
with a voice
born in honky-tonks
and roadhouses,
sets time dancing,
hollering,
loving,
in booze
delirium.
Soft,
Billie Holiday tones,
women’s blues,
jazzed into
spaces between
pain and wonder,
joy and betrayal,
floating memories
of dance halls
and over-protective,
mean,
boyfriends,
Lying there,
she introduces me
to a blues-land
cyclone
resting inside people,
released
every Saturday night,
from dusk
to late morning,
doin’ tha cakewalk,
tha shimmy,
swingout,
tha buzzard lope;
slingin’ barbecue,
gamblers’ cards
on the table,
whiskey
and homebrew
flowin.’
“Dance all night,
dance tha night
ta mornin,’
shut tha door,
dance some more.”
She sings time
into enduring,
generous strokes
of queenly
celebration,
embodying a joy
borne out of
a brutal history,
redeeming
centuries
of her ancestors,
who move
ghostly limbs
in languorous
gestures
of survival.
I leave Blind Son the guitar,
and tell my new favorite singer:
Lucille, I hope you’re feelin’ better
soon.
“Better already.”
Tallulah, Louisiana,
endless fields
with baby-
elephant-ear
tobacco leaves,
hanging shreds
of cotton
and tangerines.
I knock
on a paint-peeled door;
shuffling, rustlings
inside the shotgun shack.
A white-haired man,
pipe, dark glasses,
cracks open the door.
Sorry to bother you,
they tol’ me
further down
you’re a guitar player
tol’ me
you make the box talk.
I got one here,
you wanna
give it a workout?
What you drinkin?
What’s your pleasure?
I won’t say no to gin.
Done.
I’ll be right back.
………………………………
Lucille’s laying out
on the rumpled bed,
reed-thin,
in a thin flower-print,
blue and white dress,
face down, still.
Blind Son
holds my Martin,
tunes to open,
takes a Prince Albert can
off a shelf,
slides it up and down
the strings.
They whine and cry.
Shor do lahk this gitah.
He speaks gently
to Lucille, wakes her
from half-sleep,
asks her to sing
“one ‘a the ol’ ones.”
She rolls over
on her back
and in barely audible voice
born in honky-tonks
and roadhouses,
she sets time dancing
in booze delirium .
Soft tones,
melisma
jazzed into spaces
between pain
and wonder,
joy and betrayal,
floating memories
of dance halls
and protective,
mean,
boyfriends.
Lying there,
she introduces me
to a blues-land cyclone
people carry all week,
released every Saturday night
from dusk to daylight;
doin’ tha Cakewalk,
tha Shimmy, Swingout,
tha Buzzard Lope.
Slingin’ barbecue,
gamblers’ cards
on the table,
whiskey an’ homebrew
flowin.’
She sings time
into enduring,
generous strokes
of celebration,
joy borne out of
brutal history.
Her ancestors move
ghostly limbs
in languorous gestures
of survival.
I’m quiet
as she turns back over.
I’ve lost words
for what I’ve heard.
I summon up:
Lucille, I hope
you’re feelin’ better
soon.
“Better awready, son”
I leave the guitar behind.
Christmas-day, 1972,
Tallulah, Louisiana;
I walk through frosty fields,
sprawling boundlessly
with baby elephant-ear
tobacco leaves, shreds of cotton,
and tangerines, to a shambled row
of pickers’ shotgun houses.
I knock on a paint-peeled door;
a short, white-haired man,
with a pipe and dark glasses,
cracks open the door.
They tol’ me, up tha street,
you’re a guitar player, tol’ me
you make the box talk.
I got one here, you wanna
give it a workout?
What you drinkin?
What’s your pleasure?
I won’t say no to gin.
Done.
Be right back.
………………………………
Lucille’s laying out, reed-thin,
on the rumpled bed, body still.
Blind Son takes my Martin,
and tunes to open,
takes a Prince Albert can
off a shelf, slides it up an’ down the strings;
they whine and cry, like Robert Johnson’s
when the devil tuned it at the crossroads,
Highway 8 an’ 1.
Blind Son beams out:
Oh, man, ah lahk
this gitah.
He speaks gently to Lucille,
asks her to sing “one ‘a the ol’ ones.”
She rolls over on her back
and with with a barely audible voice,
born in honky-tonks
and roadhouses,
sets time dancing, in booze delirium.
Soft, Billie Holiday tones,
women’s blues, jazzed into spaces
between pain and wonder,
floating memories of dance halls
and over-protective, mean,
boyfriends,
Lying there, she introduces me
to a blues-land cyclone
that people carry all week,
released every Saturday night,
from dusk til well past daylight,
doin’ tha cakewalk,
tha shimmy, swingout, tha buzzard lope;
slingin’ barbecue, cards, whiskey
homebrew flowin.’
“Dance all night, dance tha night
ta mornin,’ shut tha door,
dance some more.”
She sings time into enduring,
generous strokes of celebration,
her ancestors move ghostly limbs
in languorous gestures of survival.
I leave Blind Son the guitar,
and tell my new favorite singer:
Lucille, I hope you’re feelin’ better
soon.
“Better awready, suh’.”
(orig.)
Christmas-day,
Tallulah, Louisiana;
I walk through
frosty fields,
sprawling boundless
with baby elephant-ear
tobacco leaves,
picked-over cotton
and tangerines,
to a shambled row
of pickers’
shotgun houses.
I knock
on a paint-slivered door,
and hear shuffling,
rustling, inside.
A short,
white-haired man,
pipe, dark glasses,
cracks open the door.
They told me,
up tha street,
you’re a guitar player,
tol’ me
you make the box talk.
I got one here,
you wanna
give it a workout?
What you drinkin?
What’s your pleasure?
I won’t say no to gin.
Done.
Be right back.
………………………………
Lucille’s laying out,
willowy reed-thin,
on the rumpled bed;
no signs from her.
Blind Son
takes my Martin,
and proceeds
to stroke,
hammer,
and fondle it;
sounds come out of it
in disbelief, but
no hesitation,
knee deep in cotton,
where they started out
back in slave days.
He tunes to open,
takes a Prince Albert can
off a shelf,
slides it
up an’ down
the strings;
they whine and cry,
like Robert Johnson’s
when the devil
tuned it up strange
at the crossroads,
Highway 8 an’ 1,
to a sound
unheard before.
Blind Son beams out:
Oh, man, ah lahk
this gitah.
He speaks gently
to Lucille,
asks her
to sing “one ‘a
the ol’ ones.”
She rolls over
on her back
and commences to
knock me out,
with a voice
born in honky-tonks
and roadhouses,
sets time dancing,
hollering,
loving,
in booze
delirium.
Soft,
Billie Holiday tones,
women’s blues,
jazzed into
spaces between
pain and wonder,
joy and betrayal,
floating memories
of dance halls
and over-protective,
mean,
boyfriends,
Lying there,
she introduces me
to a blues-land
cyclone
resting inside people,
released
every Saturday night,
from dusk
to late morning,
doin’ tha cakewalk,
tha shimmy,
swingout,
tha buzzard lope;
slingin’ barbecue,
gamblers’ cards
on the table,
whiskey
and homebrew
flowin.’
“Dance all night,
dance tha night
ta mornin,’
shut tha door,
dance some more.”
She sings time
into enduring,
generous strokes
of queenly
celebration,
embodying a joy
borne out of
a brutal history,
redeeming
centuries
of her ancestors,
who move
ghostly limbs
in languorous
gestures
of survival.
I leave Blind Son the guitar,
and tell my new favorite singer:
Lucille, I hope you’re feelin’ better
soon.
“Better already.”