Buddha Man Blues

[RC James]

On the Mississippi bottoms
West African griot rhythms
vibrate through Spanish moss
swaying over the river bank,
as lovers find their own cadence,
song settling into their hands
as they move softly on skin.

At night, in the juke joint,
his face commands the stage,
he nods, beams, a calm center,
statue still, and ready.

Huge hands, calloused from hoe
and shovel in the fields, cradle
the battered guitar; he slips the slide
on his little finger, it moans and cries
up and down honky-tonk strings.

Outside, on steamy streets, 
men in the shadows, knives in pockets,
are ready for the night, as their women
saunter in at dusk from hushed fields.

An aristocrat where he sits,
the clown on demand,
he moves his hands in memory
over maps of a new land, 
forbidding tyranny,
where exuberant sounds untangle
the Gordian knot fashioned of chains.


(original)
On the Mississippi bottoms
West African griot rhythms
pulse through Spanish moss
that sways over the river bank,
as lovers find their own cadence,
hands move like songs on skin.

At night, in the juke joint,
his face possesses the stage,
nods, beams, a calm center,
statue still, stone ready.

He cradles the guitar in huge hands,
calloused from field work;
the slide on his little finger cries,
moans up and down honky-tonk strings.

Hidden knives of men are at the ready,
streets are steamy, women scheme,
as they walk in from sweltering fields at dusk.

An aristocrat where he sits,
he’s the clown on demand,
moves his hands in memory over maps
of a new land forbidden to tyranny,
where exuberant sounds untangle
the Gordian knot fashioned of chains.