Robert Johnson And The One Available Woman Of Horny Blues

His crossroads moved
from place to place,
depending on the players,
and that one available
woman of horny blues.
Roadhouses, juke joints, houses
of strangers with broken
box guitars.
Crazy Red Leroy with his
razor at Robert’s throat. The moon
was shining like the sun
that night, but later Robert was rocking
out at a hoe-down,
strumming his wild mysterious stuff,
amazed that he had survived
Crazy Red Leroy’s razor; only to come to midnight,
and die of arsenic laced whiskey, handed to him
by the smiling husband of
the one available woman of horny
blues. He died in back of a whorehouse
under that same bright moon.

“this one I’ve always liked about Robert Johnson. It was written a few years ago and appeared in an online chap of mine called “Spleen” which I’m sure no one read (LOL) at Poetic Inhalation Press. —Doug Draime