PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Sitting around wishing you had beer; some money; probably a joint to smoke.  You wonder where this life is leading you.  What are you going to do?  You’re going nowhere and getting there fast.  You’ve been here and there without really being anywhere.  You just lay in bed and listen to a blues album by L’il Ed and the Blues Imperials.  It reminds you of George Thorogood which isn’t necessarily good or bad.  You’re still content for the moment.  You can relate to a song called “Everything I Do Brings Me Closer to the Blues.”

That song reminds you of your life.  You were weaned on the blues.  You almost expect everything you do to go wrong.  You could ruin a perfect situation with a single gesture or utterance.  The blues are the story of your life in spite every advantage that came your way.  If you could sing and play a guitar you’d be out jamming Muddy Waters and BB King tunes as well as a number of your own original songs.

Of course none of your own songs really exist except in your own imagination.  You couldn’t read a note of music if you tried and writing lyrics seems so awkward.  You try but can’t capture the simple direct poetry of the Blues.  If John Lee Hooker sang a stupid rhyme it would still be perfect.  You can’t capture that no matter how hard you try.  Your stupid rhymes are just stupid rhymes.  You can never cut into the pulse of emotional truth like they do.

At this point, you’re no longer wishing that you had a beer.  You’re wishing you had a bottle of whiskey so you could get royally smashed.  Then you’d be able to write a masterful blues song about—Christ you can think of a dozen girls to write about.  Some you dated.  Most you haven’t but wished you did; fascinated by them; fall madly infatuated only to have cruel rejection slapped in your face.

There was sweet Elaine who prodded you on in all your dreams.  She told you to get a guitar and learn how to play.  She sweetly guided you through the night.  It’s all going to be all right, she would say.  Yeah, sure but when’s it going to be all right?  You kept waiting and waiting.  She couldn’t give you the answer.  She wasn’t your answer.  Reluctantly you moved on again.

“It’s all my own fault.” you think to yourself as her memory begins to fade.  Her face slowly evaporates from your mind.  You close your eyes and she’s gone.  You really that you do have a half joint laying on the bureau.  You’ll sleep well tonight and maybe have a few sweet dreams to boot.