American Blues No. 7

One note cracks the pavement and distorts,

grossly distends the meaning of soul

and what it takes to make beautiful noise.

Buzzing in my ear, throbbing in my hands,

burning on my lips; the conviction to kill dogs

when they are foaming at the mouth in a dark barn,
like college students on bail in the Ivy league,

with rubber balls stuffed in their mouths

and blindfolds soldered in place.

I've read their signs and heard their prayers and protests:

burn whiskey, shoot kerosene,
blow smoke off the steaming double-barrelled six-string
and it makes a sound like bells,
like broken bells and howls and wind in trees

that grow between cracks in the lanes on deserted streets

all day, all day, all day, all day, all day.

God, who knew this was what they meant
when they said bend, contract, release, orgasm!
play the fucking blues?