He breathed out the blues with

the release of a raspy washboard,

capturing the days full of sweat

under a full sun or nights hanging

moss or in backrooms where spilled

whiskey drenches sawdust floors.


He had a birth of songs flash spitting

from hot greasy pans of his kingdom high

thoughts, peppered with dreams, shining

golden and dripping honey from his fingers

onto piano black and white teeth, feeding

back to him the life of toe tapping and the

sway that keeps his walk.



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