Moonbeams (For Bessie Smith)

I sleep in moonbeams and fade like the stars. I rise with the sun and sometimes the dogs. I owe my education to the gutter.
Girls and guns parade my vision. (A few dollars gets pretty far in this town.) I say hello to the mistresses on Merchant, the drunkards on State, and the bankers on Pilfer. What of it all?
The sun peaks like a pervert over the red mountains of the desert, it shines like a god in New England, and here, in the heart of the city, in the 21st century saloons, where pleasures are as deep as a senator's pockets, the sun melts like a candle 'neath a blowtorch. It oozes and sweats—and all the junkies pray. For what?—I don't know, and I suspect they don't either.
The train rolls and roars and snorts like some war horse. She blows her maddening horn, as if Revelations had begun. But no god arrives, no savior to settle the storms, no kings rest on these bus stop benches, no deity sloops in the alleys or creeps on the rainbow walls.
The sun beats on metal bars and taxi cars—heat rises like the saints and melts dreams and ice cream cones.
And all the factories smoke, and all the people smoke, and all my friends get flipped to the street and walked on by ragged gym shoes—and I swim through bourbon breath and duck and dodge businessmen and beggars—unsure which one is the worst. I find drooping alleyways, sprayed with ancient art of which Italy could never compete.
I break bread with the rats—I find they are better companions than most.
I read the sacred scribblings left by bold men as they profess their love for all to see.
The priest? I hide and wait till they pass. But when I am caught—I nod and smile and think empty thoughts—and steal away their dreams and dare them with my eyes. But the tongue slaps "Thanks" and I explode when they leave.
And I watch the people go buy—I think their thoughts and swallow their souls. I watch them all, the suits with ties like nooses, the reckless youth with broken smiles and quiet desperations, and the women, the lovely, sun-blessed girls in blowing dresses all wrapped in earth. And my heart shakes like a ship. A brief look of the eyes can hold me over for days; a pretty pair of lips can make me feel new; and the touch of that warm strong skin could make me weep with joy. A pretty girl of pure manners can fix a crooked spine, feed a hungry belly. An angel, slipped through the clouds to this lonelier side, can make all things holy once more.
And when this city begins to look like the last, when I find no new faces, when I've slept in every corner and bathed in every fountain, when I've had and lost love, when I've been thrown out of every church, when I've grown suspicious and tired and torn and desperate and hungry and find no pleasure in this time and this place, I find a good man or a slow train and set my sights towards the setting sun.

Category:

Music

Tags:

• Moonbeams
• Original
• Poem
• Bessie
• Smith
• Jazz
• Blues
• City
• Life
• Streets