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a costume.
dark overalls,
handkerchief
and ugly-ass shitkickers,
clutched like gifts in his outstretched hands chase the stink of mule dirt back
into my head. now he wants me
to wrap my music in a brown bag of coon
to give them what folks ‘spect to see,
says ineed the genuine look of farm boy
to sow blues’ dirty fingers between their ears
i remember
fame’s promises:
$100 suits is what made me believe.
$50 wing tips made me a convert.
$5cigars helped seal the deal.
like always,
dog-tongued anger
laps at my palms
shrinks my bowels
like a clenched fist
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an outfit.
new blue jeans,
clean head wrap,
some simple, old, sturdy shoes
are a proper field hand’s uniform,
down-on-the-farm-familiar:
dressing down—it raises gods
dark enough to capture the authentic blues, bringing southland to a crowd that
says they want to hear how it sounds for a black to scrape heaven’s dusty starlight out
of hell.
to tally up
and close accounts
$3 for the coveralls, and they were on sale.
$1 for the work boots, sold at half-price,
and here, a handshake serves as contract.
it’s strange, but,
sometimes loathing
bursts from his eyes,
pummeling me—
striking ‘cross my face
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