DIMINUENDO AND CRESCENDO IN BLUE
Brothers and Sisters,
Today I want to share
something with you
from the Book of Ellington
about a dilemma
old as blue-green algae.
About what brings me
nightly to these crossroads,
black as a blueberry under
the heel of a stiletto,
blue as a Jay with its
feathered crown in disarray.
Brothers and Sisters
—why must I sleep alone
while Cupid tickles me
with a blade of bluegrass
to draw my lapis laughter
like bath water til I’m hot
under the cobalt collar?
I know some of yall
know what I’m talking about tonight.
It’s a question as electric
as the Devil in a new Givenchy dress,
a question that’s had me waking up
in a doorway on the avenue,
blue as five frostbitten fingers
glued to a Thunderbird bottle.
If you understand
what I’m talking about tonight,
—Somebody say amen.
Brothers and Sisters,
It makes me a muted trumpet
against a cloudless sky,
the crushed cornflower
in a Viking's eyes.
Brothers & Sisters
please don’t cry or laugh,
but it’s a blue ribbon
around the neck of the fatted calf.
Can't you see through
these Woolworth shades of blue,
something's stuck to my shoe,
and it aint paper money.
Can I get a witness.
Why must the new moon rise
and leave me St. Louis Blue,
with a gangster lean in a leaky canoe?
Why would Yemaya leave me
with a Leadbelly,
blind as a Lemon,
Howling like a Wolf
with a thorn in its foot?
Brothers and Sisters,
please hear this whole note
and come in from the misty blue,
before you too crumble into
a porcelain plate of funky cheese.
I’m not saying it’s a hand
in a thumbscrew,
will outlast your teenaged tattoos,
or lock you into a rubber room
with no view.
But it may have you
progressing through 12 bars
that all overcharge
for their Mermaid Lemonade.
Raise a hand if you hear me tonight.
Brothers and Sisters,
Some might say it’s turned me
into a bluebottle fly
flitting between purple and green,
wings tattered as a pair of old jeans.
Merci beaucoup,
It’s even had Winnie the Pooh
doing Voodoo in corrective shoes,
I hear it tracked two muddy boots
through the front yard of his heart
and left blueprints to an asylum
in the freshly snowed parts.
Oh Heavenly Father,
why can’t I cordon these blues
I know that the geometry
of poetry is hyperbolic,
but can you tell me
if this is just the illusion
of a soul in a tuna meat suit?
Because it’s universally known
to be cranky as a blue crab,
itchy as a new scab,
and scientifically proven
to lower your IQ.
Somebody say amen!
Brothers and Sisters,
listen up carefully tonight because
the Postman always rings twice
to deliver this news—
Love mails all of its letters
with the postage due.
Now, can I get a witness?
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