the blues flattened my fedora into a beret
stole my zippy-de-doo-die-ay
gave me a saxophone,
told me, “blow it kid, you can never go home.”
I keep snapping my fingers to invisible sounds
and I squeak confused the squares to confound –
it’s times like these I do believe —
the Blues have got me Beat.

my Shakespeare reads like Kerouac
I bought a ticket to Paris though you never can go back
I tore a Brooks Brothers suit to hang it on my door
and there’s two guys lying on my living room floor
arguing whether a white man can sing the blues –
or is it all just some 20th century repeat
& that’s when you know –
the Blues have got you Beat

I sold my home and bought a club
where I sell espresso and absinthe
my girlfriend was born in leotards
and they’ve never been rinsed – since.
I’ve shaved my head, grown a goatee,
I’m starting to talk phonetically
this phone call’s coming to you from me
‘cuz brother – I must insist,
Oh sister, don’t resist
‘cuz in case you just missed
the ineffable fact I lay before you Jack
then I must repeat
the Blues,
the Blues,
I believe the Blues
— have got me Beat.

<this ends my 8th book — tomorrow — #9 — Autumn>

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