Poetry / Blues

blues

the blues swelter,
like beer spilled on
new york city blacktop,
in the teeth of
urban august

the blues fester,
like rotting roadkill,
beaten senseless
by the fierce tires
of the suburban dream

the blues penetrate,
like the sluggish
thrusts of
tired fucking, in a
smoke-filled neon
backroom in
Chinatown

these kids can’t
play no blues,
like a man of years
can’t play no punk;
the middle finger
amputated,
replaced by burnt-orange
mood lights;
candle wax mountains
on Mississippi
windowsills

the blues need time,
like fine wine
in old oak barrels;
bitter, then smooth on
the palate,
living every moment
in daydream tears

the blues, not
in kegs and
reckless boasts,
but in the
feminine contours of
ice cubes- afloat in my
whiskey, as the
old man across
the bar winks,
smiles his toothless
smile,
lights my way
to nowhere

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