The blues are not my own

The blues are not my own
I borrowed them
Ok, I stole

That’s what music is,
Stealing cleverly
Cover up the parts

that everyone knows
and make them
your own

When a new music is born
It’s violent
So savage and violent

Cultures clashing
like guerilla warfare –
I love it

Don’t you?
The feedback?
The grinding?

Slow it way down
until you can’t recognize
anything from the original

No music is inherently anyone’s –
It belongs to whoever conquered it
And left their flag on top

(Bitterly) I’m only halfway up
the insufferable mountain
I dropped my sword an hour ago

Hand to hand
Fist to fist
Till I’m dead

Till we’re all dead
Conflict is as human
as the blues

That’s why I love it
That’s why I stole it
When I sing, you can’t even tell

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The light

Tall trees hold the suspended light
Dark branches, brown and bending

Who knew light could be so heavy?
That light could be bound in a glass jar?

With light, there is always shadow
Sometimes I forget that

Is the light surrounded by it?
Or is the light where the shadow cannot exist?

* * * *

A grove of trees hold all the suspended lights. The branches are dark brown against it all and bend trying to support the added weight, which they do with no small amount of grace. I never knew light could be so heavy to pull down the branches of a hundred year old oak tree. I never thought about what it means to bottle it up like that – like water.

I’m noticing again that light always comes with shadow. Sometimes I forget that. It would be cliche to mention at this point things like right and wrong and good and evil – it’s not like that. The night is no more sinister than the day, we made that up to keep children from climbing out of their beds.

The light steps into the shadow and forces it to bend like the branches – pushing it away from itself. This is also an issue of cause and effect. The light came first so, the dark knows something of honor.

Make some noise for the virgin poet

The steel toed, blue collar poetry
The kind that shit talks and winces-through-sore-forearm-fuckery
Been doin’ it since I was 9, that’s a lie

I’m just a wanna be – that never has
Well, I has a little
(Stammering) I – I – I can hang drywall now!

I can’t grit my teeth like they can yet
I don’t mean it and they know it
Green around the edges with the familiar fishy smell

I walk into the deli,
Tape on my hip, like some
Hollywood “cowboy” that can’t even ride a fuckin’ horse

It’s the kind of sonnet
That always has ragged lines –
Never so neat and orderly

Wait, what am I talking about?
Poetry? Construction?
Cause I do both like it’s my first time