another good man done gone

“You may bury my body down by the highway side/ So my old evil spirit

can catch a Greyhound bus and ride” –Me & The Devil Blues by Robert Johnson

 

spent ashes fall

from a neglected

cigarette jammed

between metal strings

running over

the headstock

of a pawn shop guitar

like blue veins

leading to the heart

of the matter

open chords stumble

& stagger

behind jagged

bottleneck moans

sliding along

a juke-joint floor

aching phrases

that fill vacant

outlines

of ghost notes

waiting to be played

sweat-stained

ebony face

wailing a song

about a hound

from hell

when suddenly

the music stops—

& Robert Johnson

drops to his knees

ribs heaving

bleeding

from the nose

liver on fire

clawing

at his gut

half-dead eyes

rolling back

in his head

mind running

down highway 61

recalling

dark deals done

where a twisted

tree grows

& two empty roads

cross in the night

 

 

 

dust-off

 

clean-collar commuters

peer from the cover

of stylish shades

taking secret comfort

in a pathetic apparition

wrapped

in an army overcoat

face down

in a pool of piss

baptized

purified

crucified

in the mute humility

of his own guilt

while inside crusty

rust-filled ears

distant city traffic

hums like a “huey”—

spectral medevac

searching for a soul

lost forty years ago

somewhere along

the mekong river

 

 

nightwatch

 

in the gentleman’s

john—defunct exxon

hiding

out-of-luck eyes

hard as roman nails

bony back

to the wall

dead man

laughing

at nothing at all

shaky tones

falling

into a full-blown

smoker’s hack

bell-cracked

saxophone

rattling ‘round

the unholy sanctuary

top floor of hell

holding cell that smells

like a dress rehearsal

for the cemetery

 

 

 

 

good saint shane

…for Shane McGowan

 

holding tight

to a mic stand

lifeline—

cigarette smoke

rising

from a shaky

right hand

pushing perfect songs

past a death-rattle

diaphragm

good saint shane

stumbling

toward grace

pissing

in the face

of the “everyday”

half-burnt brain cells

still flaring

across that magic

black box

half-cocked laugh

crackling

like static

from a broken radio

rock & roll water walker

playing out

the implications

of his holy part

peter pan poet

with a metronome heart

that keeps on beating

because it can

 

 

 

 © Donnie B. Cox

DB Cox can be found in the early-morning hours, bent over a Fender
Stratocaster, in roadhouses and juke joints throughout the south. He
describes his playing style as “a look at life through drunken, godless
eyes” To quiet his tortured soul, he writes. He has published three books
of poetry. His first chapbook is entitled “Passing For Blue”, and is
available from Rank Stranger Press. Two other chapbooks, “Lowdown” and
“Ordinary Sorrows”, are available from Pudding House Publications. His
latest full size collection called “Empty Frames” can be picked up on-line
at Main Street Rag Publishing.