AND SOMETIMES THE POETRY AIN’T ABOUT FISHING.
Updated: Jul 10
A few classics from back in the day, inspired by music and road trips. And women.
THE AIR ON BOURBON
Her voice was enough to make me walk in here & I can’t believe the rose (thorns & all), her slow anguish in mid-air & the three guys
sweatin’ through Sunday suits & that thrumming bass all in emanation from neon God Damn what that woman’s doin’ to me.
I stand in the street-brass breeze on the wrong side of town lifting up-up-up along that shrill trill mid air to drown & man…
that sound squeaks through a mellow lowness— a low-down that climbs from gutter to kiss soft lips— a sharp-tongued bird flown on sweet sweet slow wings & my pulse keeps what time it can.
IN BED WITH THE DEVIL
The first time I went I brought a guitar and an I-don’t-give-a-shit state of mind. The devil was nothing but the lowest you could sink to ask a favor of. I still brought a guitar though. I still went at midnight. Sat and played a few chords in the stillness. When she walked up, crunching gravel under impossible heels, she took my guitar in both hands, frowned and threw it into the darkness of a nearby field.
DRINKING WHISKEY & PLAYING CARDS IN A JUKE SOUTH OF MEMPHIS
The pot was enough to put gas in my truck and a meal in my belly— enough to grab a wink from that fine waitress. My glass was empty & it was my deal— five card stud, nothin’s wild.
I only make it look hard.