Fragments of shells, and crawdad bones when the swamp get low,
come stink or shine, humming an old tune of ghost burns. Haunting
the braille of memories trapped inside a bottle…lost hombres singing
hymns, in tongues of mud and moonshine. While cracked hands claw
prayers from the cold ground, digging deep for what the river stole.
Slow time on the bayou, listening to the heron’s piccolo. Before dark
swallows the whole damn sky, and the night leans in—breath thick
with cicadas….and grandma rocking slow. Her words like dark’s
anesthesia, “ain’t nobody sleep easy when the levee hums at
midnight, you sumbitches.” Lost hombres singing hymns.
Don’t know how this hasn’t garnered any commentary. “Mud & moonshine”, now yer talkin’ my kinda language. “Cracked hands claw cold prayers from the ground, digging deep for what the river stole”…this whole damn piece just screams the guttural blues I love so much…”and the night leans in-breath thick with cicadas”….stunning imagery and atmosphere. Wonderfully blue….LOVE IT!!