| BEALE STREET BLUES All the alley�s gone silent In the twilight hanging on For dear life, terrified of the night to come Where it dares not be left alone The wicked wind brings a song of things to come And tales of the seven islands where it has been And the cobblestones sing to the hemlock trees Songs of what they themselves have seen Across the street the gardens are glistening With the rain that fell the night before And the judge�s daughter lays weeping Where he struck her to the floor The peasants are leaving Providence behind To lay their handcrafted stones At the feet of the muse that waits in the darkness For some inspiration of its own You can hear the cries of ghosts who lost a child To the war that freed the slaves The mourners, two hundred years after the fact, Are still searching for his grave His mother waits in fitful hope for news of his death And in desperation for news of his return home And the mirrors see only emptiness In the room where she sleeps alone I began the night on cognac but it was whiskey That found me stumbling into first light Charity itself did help me to my feet As I whispered something into the night Which I do not remember; but perhaps she�ll never tell And perhaps I�ve nothing to worry for What passed between us before the bells That brought morning to its senses and broke the darkened silence, Summoned the demons of the afterlife to retreat Into their houses until the night came again And I needed someone with whom I could speak Of what I knew I could never breathe To another living soul Fantastic visions of paradise That will only cast me back into the cold. I thought a sentence or two just might suffice; I assumed I�d never want for more And that she would take what she was given And demand of me nothing further Leave this elegy as it has remained untouched For millenia, I to her implored She turned from me and closed her eyes And nevermore did she speak a word The wicked wind came into my room And spoke of what I�d cost myself And left as thought it had never stood Over my fitful sleep in stealth The judge he caught me sleeping And he sent me to my death With twenty seven criminals Who had lost faith in faith itself Their troubles were nearly at an end; Mine were falling perfectly into place As though by design and not by accident Of a misplaced gesture of grace But I knew that was too much to hope for; To that Sisyphus can attest The greatest fear, that of nihilistic paralysis, That one man can possess Tonight at the feet of the muse I�ll lay my head And be greeted by twenty seven angels of fate Who by night lead the broken into Pyrrhic victory And by day glare silently upon what they�ve created And across the battlefield the previous night�s rain glistens On the bodies of the fallen Like the blood that flows into the streets That finds its home in solemnity and reason The raging fire plays host to a sordid scene, if you�ll care To sit idly by and watch the temple burn, Its structure somehow alight with a fury That on its birthplace in ignorance turns And casts a shadow on the doctrine That brought these fantasies into being And the gentleman who applauded these initiatives And introduced me to this alternate existences The broader context of the events at hand Is not lost upon the lone philosopher-elect Who stumbles aimlessly in the semidarkness Before the streetlamps have awoken Mumbling indistinctly in subtle, rambling rhymes As he glances furtively into the sky, fearing what he expects, Waiting for the stars to reveal themselves And proclaim that first light has truly broken The nameless souls are each alone in their homes Waiting for the tortured man to make his proclamation Whereupon they�ll nod all at once in agreement And declare that they�d been expecting devestation The complacency of the populace astounds me; they fail to grasp The inevitability of what the coming light must bring: The end of the idylls they�ve adopted as their own And the subsequent end of the spiritual company they�ve been keeping There can be no more fitting an ending For a pilgrim bereft of eloquence Than to be lost at night on Beale Street With the homesick blues again. That�s all to pass when first light breaks Or, as the philosopher-elect of our times is wont to say, When we transcend the depths of Enlightenment And greet the tragedy that is the coming day. |
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