Who knows where I’ll be headed
And who I’ll be after that
To my sole credit
I laid a man down on the tracks

I’m tired in my stare
Strides hurt a great deal
Nobody’s hired to care
Pride can’t afford a meal

If Consolation Day comes
I won’t know my way home
My tonsils are flayed
My lungs are made of stone
I’ll crow

It began like this

A dulcet little stream,
a secret winding path, and
two sole salty-scaled trout
wondering if there is something to be said about
The Road Less Traveled.

It ended in the sea
the crashing, wide and
Travelled sea.

Sent: Wednesday, Mar. 23rd, 2016. 8:35 a.m.*

I thought of you for the first time today in
3 years, and I think
you know why.
That song about the River
that always brings me back to
your palms.
Winter's cracked mine to ruin,
ancient in its destruction, but
in some ways
I can see my veins
without consequence.
I've always been fascinated with
currents.

Vermont is too far from Chicago.
But probably a little closer to you,
somewhere off in the cheek of a mountain,
or the lips of a brook trout.
I've haven't eaten fish since you died;
the day after your funeral,
I bought a book on
reincarnation.

You are more migration
than memory.
I used to say I saw Mississippi in your eyes.
Nose as delta.
Mouth made of sea.
I hope you're still swimming,
with broad shoulders as fins,
and hands probing the riverbed, softly,
searching for fossils.

Melody in the flow
drenched in this shining blue
weather beaten, still appearing new
ever engrossed in a deep
humming meditation, to achieve
its goal, to meet its beloved,
the vast ocean.
the way it goes, serene and hypnotic
steadfast,
stimulating,
stoic
molding itself as per the terrain
finding the way ahead,
whatever be the hindrance.

Love is such a great driving force
and it has no boundaries
demonstrated to us, from the deep ocean core
to the vibrant scattering at the estuaries.

A darkened bar
An old guitar
A stage that once played host
To all the Delta greats and now
to Robert Johnson's Ghost

An old man
His spitting can
A boy from up the coast
Learning how to play the blues
In the home of Johnson's Ghost

You gotta feel the music boy
You sure don't feel too much
Your fingers skipping half the notes
You're playing double dutch
Slide it, let the music meld
That's what folks all want the most
You got to feel it, yes sirree
Like Robert Johnson's Ghost

Five hours passed
Time went fast
But what he learned the most
Was feel the notes
That were wrote
By Robert Johnson's Ghost

The spirit has to fill you
You have to suffer for the blues
You can't come in and play for us
In shiny, brand new shoes

The old man
his spitting can
Made the young boy cry
He played the notes
That Johnson wrote
on the day that Johnson died

Until you feel the music boy
And stop playing double dutch
You got to slide the fingers son
Don't use the guitar as a crutch
Remember where you're playing
And to who it still plays host
You're playing for the netherworld
And Robert Johnson's Ghost

You got to know what for, Babe, you got nothin' to lose,
Just like ev'rybody else in the whole **** world.
You gotta break on through
To the other side of your sad attitude,
But you can't shake off
Them muddy Mississippi Bluez.

Well, Hell! She's beatin' on a drum
And she's gettin pretty loose.
Seems like ev'rybody else in the whole **** world
Is comin' down on her
And standin' on some plattitude.
She's just tryin' to groove
To the muddy Mississippi Bluez.

Up and down the water,
You watch the riverboats cruise,
As you drink against the tree beneath a sky of blue.
Sleep wants to take you,
But Honey, you refuse.
You gotta pay your dues
To the muddy Mississippi Blues.

Life along the delta can be simple and fine,
When the stills fill the jugs and the full moon shines.
You're gonna make it through
When you find a little gratitude.
So give your praise
To the muddy Mississippi Bluez

"Well, Hell! Take me away,
Muddy Mississippi.
I know I can count on you.
To stain my soul
Like muddy Mississippi goo.
I owe it all
To the muddy Mississippi Bluez!"