for Jimi Hendrix
Even your sorrow whines like a heavyingArrow stirring, wildly, that lonely whistleDevils can lure from the mouth of a reed.Gods post at the bridge of your song,Bleeding from your talisman of string.Even sorrow rhymes with the buried.
Every morning the autumn rain fallsAcross gardens, sheep clothed in wolves,Daring the weak to finally eat their masters.Goats, cows, they play in the morning fog, yet,Belly-up, gutted like a calf, a demon laid still,Except its teeth, longing for those who near.
Evil sleeps often at the doors of our paradise.At noon, it can hear its songs over the hillsDoubling to a pitch the hell-dogs howl under.Goddamn, if Evil could roam all kingdoms,Bluesmen would frequent our pains, humElegies and crowd the graves of the slain,
Erase names engraved on the faces of stone.All men created equal, beneath reddened sod.Dogs prowl your farms. They smell yourGrief buried in the grass. Is that how youBring music out of wood; cry shovels into theEarth until the darkness of worlds scream?
Ever to confess in the Blues, means youAre flooded with knowledge. Most menDie from that. Most men die thinking, singing—