Twelve-Bar Blues for Jews-Harp in B-Flat
Two years I have wandered like an old-time prophet, desert-
birds nested in my beard, drunk the while
on red wine, formaldehyde, and vivid visions
of eternity here. I breathe sand and insanity through open
mouth, feel loneliness press relentlessly down on the back
of my shiftless struggles. I sleep, hours of sleep. I drink
fancy European coffees in third world hotel
cafes. I sleep again. I write Gregorian rants.
I rail, hide, ride blood-soaked carpets through suicidal
traffic, above the press of the masses, in the face of psychic
repression. I raise my staff high and cry how long?
to deaf heavens, and call room service for another bottle of red.