down by the River Road

Mpls. Star-Tribune, spring 1957

ALTER EGO

Hobo, out there in the wind & the rain

like a shattered King Lear.

An old-fashioned father.

Harmonica squeals – like brakes on a train.

Looks up toward the ridge, where Henry

mimes King of the Oak.

The Knot-King (royal joke).

Spidery threads cross buffoonery

with tacky mute muttering...

clay Eye-in-Hand

from Coatlicue-land.

Anne Boleyn territory (stuttering

terror).  He’s your 8th alter ego

this month, moony Earth –

been angry since birth.

Tsk, tsk.  Some boor’s addled Eddie, yo.

Divided-dividing, fibrillated

fibber... earthquake

salaud in pancake

make-up.  Henry?  Must be related.

Brothers, battling in his head

since Cain was able to kill –

equilibrium still

left out of the equation, love.  Sad!

There’s a buried man on the other side,

sire (near Pig’s Eye).  Emerald

green, her leaves unfold.

Big Muddy catfish will abide.

11.17.18

how to say hallelujah

OLD HAUNTS

The poem reaches like a zigzag vine

through thick vernacular

toward the actual here

& now (woodpecker in a pine).

Turbulent nation, giving birth

to glossolalia.

How to say hallelujah

in Osage, in downtown Fort Worth?

Don’t ask Dallas.  Some holy fool,

some mendicant small-fry

tried to catch Caesar’s eye

before that scapegoat kicked the stool –

you know the rule.  I’d’ve marched

if I had to.  The heat

made everything complete

hell.  Our very words parched

on our lips, like crackling cicada husk.

Some said he was coming back,

some just nibbled hardtack,

but all agreed – he could really busk,

back in the day.  Seldom was heard

a discouraging word, when

he blew that harp.  Listen,

disconsolate hearts.  What appeared

before you on the road to Emma’s

echoes again like dew

before morning – will do,

will do.  Old haunts of summers...

7.12.18

Blues for James Cotton