Juke
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Your Mask Eats Your Face
To juke was to lead a wandering life, have intercourse. To go in, jam and poke. Whorehouses. From the 1930’s on Delta blues players played juke joints, passing the music from generation to generation. Juke boxes were invented in 1927.
Nothin’ but the blues, everybody’s talking ‘cause talk is cheap.
Hard field work prisons, slavery, life, death, love, loss, leaving and living the blues with a feeling.
It was nothing but the blues talking.
While living, singing, and playing harp blues in the key of C, I trimmed long fingernails down to the quick brown fox jumped over the fence. WYSIWYG. Small slivers of enamel snow spiraled into air floating to cobblestones.
It was a clear truth after three days in the Sierras on narrow Roman passages, chopping and climbing in ancient forests removed from civilization’s discontent.
People moved fast and furious in Cadiz. I sensed their malcontent maladjusted wild crazy freedom from being closeted, closed in, no sky, no air, stoned frustrations manipulating mainstream desires down ways and means with cause and effect in the big city.
It was all a relative reality in the absolute reality and most of my relatives were dead.
Their grounded headstones decorated with names, ages, epitaphs collected dust living with memory.
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