The smokey purple hues of the blues
both seduce and repel me.
I’m just not that hip.
The music makes my heart accelerate
but my mind can’t keep up.
The prowess required to improvise
a riff or bare your soul while singing
is to be admired: a foreigner in
this dry, parched land.

I ask the bartender for another round:
whiskey, neat. Whatever is easy and
smooth, like the music we’re hearing.

Listening to another chord modulation,
my heart wants to jump out of my chest
and cry. My mind is concerned with the
theory of it all–how many undulations
between chords denotes a great blues number?
Or it is the performer?
Where is the objectivity?

 

The whiskey tells my brain to take a walk,
leaving only me, my heart and the haze
of blues and purples that envelop the room.

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