for Robert Johnson
i. west they got it wrong about “slide” guitar.story goes, there’s a prison with no guards inside,the walls are glass and you could see the ocean if you looked up with your eyes closed. the menwaste the hours breaking the necks of bottles, drink,slide blood-hands on the walls, some song of longing.
ii. south it’s so goddamn hot you mistake water for sand. you dive in the inside of it, each grainfinding its way to your mouth’s pink-roofed prison.what good is the cage if it’s filled? the wholepoint is the space remaining. if you die like this; filled, what’s death when a coffin is inside a coffin?
iii. northup in new york, there’s a prison on water. inmates hang right side-up like upside-down bats in the shadowed corners of the rooms.think of rows of empty boxes with cotsand bowls. think of boxes spared and emptied of men. i think the men kiss the ceilings when they hang.
iv. east at the crossroads, the devil casts four shadowson the ground. the moon glistened like a wafer and i found religion after picking the guitar. only something this hollow could sing so well. now, my soul spoonsthrough my chest, leaving this one good prison for some other.