Of a milked moon
On the legs of your suit.
I want to be a rascal too.

The Lord’s prayer,
The tray of withered dollars,
The organ-holler,

The field moan
Of a young man
Who will find Jesus,

& before reaching home,
Lose him again.
I want to be a rascal too.

Father, take this music
Spilling out of my fingers.
Take my wrist watch,

& house keys
& patent leather shoes.
Take my left eye

& puncture me
With needles,
Leave me in the junkies’ ward.

Mister Pulpit,
Mister Culprit,
Mister Wine,

No one in Heaven or Hell
Will ever stop loving you,
Papa, why can’t I be a rascal too?

IV. Booker’s Tomb

Airline Highway.
Sheetrock houses hurricanes

can turn to mud,
the trees in ruffled sleeves,

the smell of winter
covered in rain.

No songs are called
from bones. In the cemetery

Time has hushed
the medley of the blood.

That luscious afro wig,
that eye patch & flowing cape

are gone. To find you
James Booker, I have gone

into the palace of the dream.
I have gone to the bar

where the piano player
could not play your song.

I have gone to the bar
where the dope dealers

still look for you,
I have sipped water

on the couch
in your sister’s house

while the mantel of photos
called your name:

Maharajah. Liberace. Little flame
beneath a spoon. The scent

of peeled moonlight
tunneling to the brain.

James Booker I have come
here to find you. How long

will I be whispering your name?

THE BLUE KOOL

THE BLUE KOOL

Yo, you soft as the flesh beneath my thumb
nails. That’s why I cut you. I’m

that third rail, that live wire.
Yeah, I’m that PI for hire,
that Dark Age, serf-made spire.

You need to say your prayers.
You need to believe your naysayers.

Those parachute pants you wear
are baffling. There’s hot air

in your bread basket. You penny-loafer.
I got a chauffeur.

I’m laughing. Your tour bus
behind my limousine, Boy, you can’t pass

it. I’m too cool. I freeze the wannabees,
I melt the moon, I hand my butler my top hat, I tease

my afro with my afro pick. My head is on
right. I’m fur collared, cashmere, double down,

diamond-button trench coat.
You goodwill jacket.

You anti-hazardous.
You crack to my Angel Dust.
Better run before you get your butt

kicked. You plastic spastic.
You manic matchstick.
I’m hot like that sunlight and Classic

Rock. I’m that Black Elvis, that Black Bach,
I’m too cool. I grind my pelvis, my back

crack, your mamma back crack too.
I give her love bites. I’m daddy to you.

Brush your teeth, empty your bladder
before you greet me. That fat
girl call you Honey, all her kids call you Daddy,

the bastards. You have my sympathy,
but you can’t have my money.
Don’t write no symphonies

or rap songs about me.
Your style is lousy.
Yeah, Boy, I’m too cool. Don’t talk about me.

THE BLUE MELVIN