Mississippi Suite
1.
I have crossed over some
where I can buy a cross
road map For mummified worlds with
in words I invent
This
river wants me to jine a crap
game in its hind pocket
books of Clinton Wants me
to make my pallet in still
waters of its chilly arms Wants me
This
river reminds me of my grand
father’s groan My grand
mother’s “Do Lords Do Lord Do
remember mes” This place offers
the ambiguity of a second
handed prayer in a foreign
legionnaire’s boot
prints on a baby’s skull
Davenport
opens its arms Opens my wounds
with memory The river is
its voice
2.
Here The blues
singer exits out
side his mother’s arm
length of blessings
Here A glossary of sand
speaks From skeletal remains of Robert
Johnson’s amalgam of groans Here
silence is my monologue
This
is no asylum there
fore I cry on this page
short days My daddy had
for joy He stole
Here Naked silhouettes of folded hand
jive On vacation in winds of Eddie
King’s guitar Pleads for
rain
3.
She possesses much pain
from hide-ways inside
There
is no need ever for her
to borrow some
body else’s cries
to feed her lyrics There
are rectangles Triangles And
some geometric figures on her soul
She
riffs spirits from crushed
skulls From names
inherited From dispossession
These
recycled scars are Bessie’s empty
gin bottles of loss In her there is no Big
House morals In her is a synthesis of hill
side myth With collard
greetings From corn pone folks
Blues impulses rise from Under
neath her skin Speaking for rainy
days and nights she swallows
to get sleep
She steps in
to two by fours of lonely
night/absences of promises
a house of blues/erected
from the stuff of one’s breathing in lone
some rooms/Steps into feelings
with a strut/all earned with tear
drops falling down ecstatic wang
dang doodles Sketching by
gone dangers floors/where some
body gets next to some
body’s sweet thang
She
is a passenger
on journey/she improvises
with her losses
4.
Here.
The good
byes are recycled as out
stretched alms
A metamorphosis of canine
squeals from Ogun’s
thrift shop of blood
lines/for red beans and rice
fields/where rhythmic vocabularies
ascend in voices Longing
affluence of imagination
Rhythm is soloist
Rhythm is the land
mark declension of spirit
where lyric is a sub
let apartment in wild arias
conjured/Accordion to
rebellions in Chaz’s wash
boarders’/saturated murmurs of
yes I can/I can can can
move you
5.
A blues party
line from birth of Shango
till/she takes the A
Train whistle
stop as the back
ground music
for her testimony
Disguises/torn pages of a hymnal
from/the pulpit of her gestures She
distills a cliché with a half
cry-me-a-river-of-muddy-tears/head
shake
Metamorphosis of Ogun’s
thrift shop of blood
lines/for the red
island/where I locate
my biography in gris
gris hand
cuffs of new moon
shine
Zydeco is party
music/for land
scapes of the imagination
Steel trees/spank
against neon dance
floors/of that old
time religion
6.
I am alone And today is the birth
day of my country I hope bloody
tears do
not rain from dreams of
my people I hope bloody
tears do
not rain
7.
A blue party
line with/history
Dangles
from Denise’s mileage
from some pulpit
where pews reel and
rock in vocal coronations of
simple good
times and pain Where too much back
street walking is a pilgrimage
Blues/America’s only
independence day or night
time
8.
I know
I was going to play
blues
I longed/history on the other
side/of another’s skin
Touch
Needs no pass
ports or visa
cards/to cross in
to feeling
I know
I was going to play
blues
The rail
road tracks/are my guardian
angels/ I dialogue
with wheels/grinding
a journey from tractors and
dreams/I pack on cars
When/I carry my life every
where/I go
to sing its wing’s
span/over shadows of
troubles/I feel
I know
I was going to play
blues/I am hawk
eye/worried I know
I am going
to play
blues
9.
Some other/o
men/got my name
and the blues
got me This autobiography of
sickness/I bear
as a triumphal/memory
that Robert Johnson’s hell
hounds/did
not/have portraits of my laughter
for/supper Like my grand
mother/I use wash
board charred speech/patterns
from the elders’
years/to scrub
my vision
clean
10.
A river/up
the sleeve/of rice
filled/dreams
rises/to hollers
from low/moaned levee
whispers/flat
footed/in their evocations
where/séances in hand
shakes/do
not mean/a dog
gone thing/unless the dog
on Side
orders/of my lips
conjure/ladders
I/climb from dry
bones Where/my smile
is/a chapter
nine/for the bad
times Good
bye/now
11.
My
song/is a memory wall
where/drinking
gourds/climb
for/rhythms I
interrogate/after I
find/Burrell’s chordal
silhouettes/dancing in
side/my head
liner/notes in blues pub
crawls/like a king
snake/dancer on parole
12.
There
is no injunction
to keep me from exhibiting
Little Walter’s sound
stages Of a harmonica’s
growth Where/the black
man’s soul is a musical home
stead/every
body wants to claim
Mine
is a road/by wild
streets/cracked
by crack
shots Here/is in
ward/back
seats/near a cross
road/map of the hard
times/I remember
My face/is an annuity
for generations In my/wrinkles
the mystery/of dry
bones/open for embattled
souls/ on ice
cream/men’s facets of
expressions of/roads tear
drops travel/for sales
13.
Moments/hibernate
in rhythms/be
headed by/slow
dragging cotton/mouth
longings/The squalid cries
he swallows/refuse hide
and/seek gambits
in wrinkles/Rise
14.
My child
hooded memories of honey
suckled/nights come
down forty
six/years of revival
scars/on the back
handed/a
mens/I know
in/a thousand languages
I/breathe
I am
a child/a
gain/in this fire
you exhale on landscapes/I
revere in Momma’s how
I got/overs
Harmony/winged finger
tips/reach for
meadows/calling over
monuments/of lowered
screams/I chase
I need/a root
doctor/feel
good/And gospel
train/with box
cars/of blues
in/the night
time/falling from Poppa’s brand new bag
dad/to pay alimony
Near/a road nurse’s aid
station/where my melody
works/magic
where trans
axle/laughter of a continent
And/I walk in
this little/light
When/you open
your/mouth keys
in/doors of my temples
turn
15.
You/recording
engineer of/bloody
silences/I meet
you/on the Mississippi river
boats/ferrying dreams a
cross/Lady
Luck’s/whirl
pools/of suctioning thefts
The
land breathes
your/first cries.
Says/your last
name/Pulses drum heads
clapping rivers/a
round/celestial stairs
you/fold in
your/guitar’s carriage
Bare/feet of lost
tales/climb from down
stair
cases/of moon
shine/in your eyes
I /believe
your natural calling
is/a voice from ruins
in/tattered dreams
from pew/Or from be
hind/a coma’s greedy
bars
When/you saddle your pony
express/rider of screams
I hear/my grand
mother's cry/wither
in laughter/As you break
off/chunks of history
like/it’s a bread
loaf/my daddy
snatches/for a jay
bird/house solo
on vacation
You/a deity
in/kente silhouettes
chanting/epics of muddy
shoes/Conjuring be
hind/the mighty sun
glasses of rum
where/seldom good
byes/erode in
to/instruments of lineage
Just/a closer
walk/with Shango
or/Ogun fades in
to my mother’s/memory
My grand
father/is a boy
hood/I know in/Mississippi mud
caked/designed of dreams
for/me
Silhouettes/of muscadine
vines/orbit his shoulders
As/if in a gesture of
resentment/Steal nectar
from/the strange
fruit/Swing low
sweet/acoustic beverages
Swing/low coming
for/to carry me
16.
You
invent space/before
hands/strike the Twelfth
Knight/Where winding
caprices/of narrow
roads/are recipes
There
is/a century of debts
in/your little finger
but/rib
tips/in your thumbing
a ride/past Sammy
cross/and another day
light/brigades of troubles
in view/Where he keeps nineteen
thirty two/all
ways/in his voice
You
preacher/with
a/black suit
case/of dance
floor/mats be
tween/vacations
in/your rhythms
Your song/payments of a few hand
claps/in a store
front/memory where a voiceless
spirit/balances its self
hood/on your timing foot
pats/ on the back of Saint
Peter/The launched
smile/of gangrene rivers
ascend/contours of your closed eyes
for/a balm
17.
There
was a time/I
had/horns for
tenor/moments or
claimed/fare
wells/I borrow
from/melodious epics
each/breath
each/fingered evocation
elicits/from wood
from/wind
instructed/to sing arias of
deliverance/from rain
Where/Satchmo’s
indigo/note
books/of riffs ascend
moans/from a shallow hole
in/Bessie’s pig
iron/discs
She sips/Old Man
Grand
piano’s/ chordal
whispers
18.
Lurrie/a back door
man
din
go/home child
hood/in pain
Tracks/down
home blues for a chi
town/house party
in/his soul
Sits/behind square
dices/coughing tooth
aches/he remembers
Good/morning little
school/house
Can/I
go/home
I say/hello
to/a canopy of rain
bows/I tie
with/aboriginal
tones
He/takes
space/of black hole
in/ones
in/Tiger’s drives
along galaxies
Removes/salt
peanuts/from back
beats/of rain
on/my window’s pains
He/the ancient dining
room/beneath the pain in
side/us
19.
Beale Street/shadows
wade/in water
lilies/in your years where Memphis
Slim's/pyramids
commence/longing foot
pats/tic
tac/toes in crosses of burning
nights
There
is/a bridge
over/choir
buoys/in your guitar
Calling from/ god’s
umbrella
He/sweeps voodoo
caked/wind sent by
a/cloud
to train/him
how/to ride a tree
top/Where he breathes
alphabet/scorched dreams
in/field of dry
bones
