J. Camp Brown

                        {the minstrel leaves the stage} 



 



 



 



Nice ax  



               



               I say.  



 



                           He says  



                                     



                                           “pyx



but I see how you could confuse that”



 



 



 



                                                             What else   



could I beg for but  



 



                                 pardon? 



                                            



                                               He tells me 



                                                             



                                                                   “there



is none not whilst I make water and libate;



buy me one of what you’re having; tell me



your ailings and next set I’ll slather the balm



across your brow”



 



           



 



                               I buy the spirit, but am fine, I tell him



 



my kids love their puppy, we all tussle.



                           



                                                               I’m guttered 



by this happiness.



 



                             He sings  



 



                                            “my psalmbook is a host 



of dogs baned and swole-up; of molars 



shattered by bruxing grief; you’re kindling”



                           



                                                                           He sings                                                 



“air out your eyes”



 



 



 



                                Is that a Hank, ’a Cash?



                         



 



  



“alms of such generous measure cannot be



guaranteed nor refunded ”



 



 



 



                                      You Catholic?



 



 



 



                                                              “i am catholic;  you know



i like your proximity and you can sure sit close;



this bar is dead yet I’m drinking left-handed!



come you; congregate with me around the mic”



 



 



 



Me?



 



 



 



        “you do you play?”



 



 



 



                                         I can’t play a thing. 



 



 



 



                                                                          “then you will



need a banjo; you’ll make of your right hand



a cup; strum; you could put your other hand



in your pocket; easy”



 



 



 



                                  But to keep such a pace? 



 



 



 



 



                                                                           “my heel



thuds and leadeth the way; though you peter out



though you rest, pick it back up; and whoa



therein’s dynamics; though you think I’ve lost stride 



the measure divides infinitely; though you lope behind 



you cannot drag the time it drags you along



a consecrated path a circle; we are bound



to overlap”



 



 



 



                   I’m slow of speech and tongue.  



Can’t you get someone else?



 



 



 



“no one is here; neon like moths tick



against tubes these lights so perpendicular



my silhouette glooms against the wall



and lurks; keep your face toward the signage,



mouth toward mic or voice and visage



you will bleed into the corner”



 



 



 



                                                   But I don’t know any words.



 



 



 



“save that line!  it is perfect for banter twixt



songs;  stutter;  be sheepish; the PA could sprawl



a mere hum across the crowded firmament



afterside this drop ceiling; play 



your self as a character; say it skutter tway;  



say Sewanee;  say right and reckon;



say Lawd; attribute weather to him; pluralize



his name, like They Lawds’s lightnin’ out;    



come Tulsa you’ll mumble the chorus; come



Joplin holler, Memphis sing



and Shreveport harmonize; come home



again we’ll blend our twang of breath;



but tonight, follow me; I’ll feed you the word”