Blues Jerusalem
I
All is unwell at the well
where the barking birds
whistle and five dollars
may as well be five hundred
Drums whisper, the gentle
lilting flute falls on deaf ears;
the Cadillac blues band
is just too damn loud
Listeners can only hear
the deep down out and proud
of patio chairs as the damn
breaks at the wanderlust dusk
Ten years after we exchanged
a white shirt for black,
the barkers are back
and we scream into night
II
All is quite well at the well ...
all is well, well, well
and the contrasts
in the gloaming,
so stark, form rainbows
gleaming from bed bug eyes,
young bucks, fresh faces
as the last boat is loaded
and pointed toward
an imagined meridian line:
Thank sweet Jesus we didn't
cross the continent
in a Mussolini time
III
Cadillac Angels, Route 66,
Heritage Square, five-o-eight p.m.,
the next to last day of autocratic August ...
stand up bass, white shirt, cowboy hat,
sunlight, a bit bright, sunglasses, dark,
as the drum circles behind me
at the first well drilled in Flagstaff
percolate into the overculture
of red rocks rock-a-billy
celebrating the gasohaulic furies
of people who cannot let go ...
O, to whatever
hearing I have left,
praise thee ...
IV
Look here, in the cold air,
off-peak hours, the cinder
is soft, a softened crown
to the demons all drowned
as the stratus clouds
of shielded sun
requires some place
purposeful to be
and as she sleeps
beneath the cover
of dirty bed bug blankets
the heartbeat pulse
of Bob Marley
