I like today’s poem; it sounds like the blues. (A minor seventh is the interval between the opening two notes of “There’s a Place for Us,” by the way.)
by Jeffrey Bean
Foghorns, grackles, wheat fields sighing in wind. The night
hawk’s ricochet. You better come on in my kitchen. Mixolydian
trumpet runs boiling up the Mississippi, turning into urban
blues and smokestacks over Gary, Indiana. Hymns. Grief.
The hiss of sprinklers in timber yards, brawl of log trucks
crawling up Mt. Hood. Chainsaws, see-saws, sneakers,
squeaking in high school gyms. Have you driven a ford lately?
Field hollers. Sorrow. Fat fathers riding their mowers’ thick
Chords. Throngs of Santa Clauses all across Wisconsin ringing
bells in snow in front of Wal-Marts. Musac at Costco, Osco,
Piggly Wiggly, Winn-Dixie. Arawaks’ shouting, the Santa
Maria creaking onto shore. Cell phones, car alarms, laptops,
the air raid siren’s range. Achy Breaky Heart in the flamingo
light of roller rinks. The wheeze of progress. The forests of
Mississippi echoing with Me and the devil was walking side by side.
Grind of church organs, cotton gins, sledge hammers
knocking into granite. No one listening to Monk play
Crepuscule with Nellie at The Open Door. Toyotas starting,
crows screaming, a rabbit snatched by an owl. Gimme a pigsfoot
and a bottle of beer. Reverend Dimmesdale speaking in tongues
of flame. Michael Buffer crooning Let’s get ready to rumble!
Chants at NBA games. Weeping. St Louis woman, where’s your
I hear Dexter Gordon.