“blues in a heatwave"

“blues in a heatwave"

written with a wild new orleans in blood by jake kilroy.

when my head swam through that sapphire bar in new orleans,

my spirit dragged light behind me;

a glowing wake

from a star-shouldered stumble

awash in a pollution of hope,

proud but not perfect,

more gonzo than groucho,

with senses spun,

shaken not stirred,

dragging lines so trite you could walk ‘em back twice,

before finally getting the rug pulled out from under me

so i could fly.

“say, what’s in this whiskey?”

“i don’t understand.”

“me neither.”

fine conversation skills for a talker

who smuggled in a mouth keen on its bourbon scrub,

selling a smile as brittle as an upstart’s ego,

as loyal as a long shot, as crazy as washing machine eyes,

as moving as a poem read in an earthquake.

still, it kept pace in a nosedive tailspin,

head over heels for a drunker redhead in glasses,

snapping fingers to remember why she’s familiar

before realizing she reminds anyone of everyone

this married to the road.

glory be mayhem and music

when it’s this hard to tell the difference;

all of us with songwriter business cards

though we only got karaoke in our bones.

all of it blasts like background noise,

adjacent to the dying wish of a night,

booming love songs crashing through smoking patios,

hearing mockingbirds hum lovebird tunes,

knowing what women are in season,

promising heaven in an alleyway

delivering hell in a relationship,

and here i was talking up the waitress

about what shelters she works on weekdays.

what would you have from us beyond youth?

it’s the only thing we’re good at.

it’s the only thing we love.

it’s the only thing, some say,

begging god to go from death bed

to hospital bed to "your own bed"

to some girl’s bed you can’t name.

hot damn on the hottest night,

this bar crawl could last all life.

but here, hear a marching band interrupt the jazzinites,

old friends trying out new jokes,

always adored, always with rhythm,

them cats cut their veins by way of brass

to pour out a blue only known by

how we abuse depression for glory;

promoting the broken artist battle

while swinging the profits to get help.

so i watched hands curve around hips

like ten snakes taking post-adam eves

to the dance floor of a wilder jungle,

and i couldn’t recall how i used to

write more little black books than poems.

but then the band stopped to drink

and a blues song strutted out of the speakers

and i was suddenly home

without knowing any of the words.