Politics is a long walk, not a cab
on expenses.
It does not speed through our
darker towns
swerving round the fallen, past
the crowds.
It is the service of the
outstretched hand,
the conversation, the trying to
understand.
Some lives are a slow turn of the
arm, same
line and length day after day;
others deceive
with variation, changes of pace
and angle,
occasional days that skid through
fast,
that you can only stand up and
applaud.
The universe is barely credible,
its mass in excess of what is
visible,
its meaning opaque, intangible.
Most of us exist and die,
illegible
and void. Others are indelible,
named by every atom, irreducible.
It’s not easy in the Big Easy,
friend,
and making it big is the biggest
joke,
but a bluesman’s a bluesman right
to the end,
and life’s hard, and then you
croak.
You sit down to play; the kit
becomes
an orchestra, a symphony of drums,
super-heavy, hi-hat like a ticking
bomb,
paranoid snare and depth-charge
toms,
kick-drum beating rebellion in
sixteenths,
no compromise, no sell-out, no
relief.
Sooner or later we will return
to an Eden of our own; yours
will be lush and romantic, bass
amped up and folded back until
it becomes a hymn to lost youth.
Even through the soup of medium
wave
I heard that glimmer of guitar, a
six-string
smile, riffing like a wink. Song
devises codes
of joy; you broke every one, over
and over.
Some songs blunder in,
shouting their own names,
angry, but with no solutions.
Others wear different skin,
turn inertia into flames,
kindle private revolutions.
America wears a disguise of song,
usually too long,
torn between the loud and the
lush,
and always too much.
You sang anguish into a soft spell
all by yourself,
and when I dial you on the
telephone
nobody’s home.
In One! A double - no, a treble
bed.
In Two! The only colours; black
and red.
In Three! The working man and his
pleasures.
And Bully’s Special Prize! The
drama of small measures.