hosho mccreesh | elmore james | buddy guy

Elmore James

on tub-stilled shine,
passing a bottle back to
the ghost of Robert Johnson,
barreling down a dusty, yellow,
washboard Mississippi backroad,
heart shuddering in his chest,
all the screws shaking loose,
he slides that ’39 Merc
across the terrible frets
of the American night,
past the crossroads,
hungry and desperate for
more liquor, more money, more women,
more anything-to-make-him-forget,
more he-don’t-even-know-what,
and in the backseat,
the ghost of Robert Johnson
downs the last of the bottle,
and says “Let’s go man, shit!
Let’s ball this jack…
whad’ya want–
to live forever?”

Buddy Guy

Who’s Buddy Guy?

The fuck you say
‘who’s Buddy Guy?’

Ask Muddy Waters.
Ask Howlin’ Wolf.
Ask Little Walter, Koko Taylor,
Ask Sonny Boy Williamson.

Ask Clapton,
ask Hendrix,
ask Jeff Beck and
Stevie Ray Vaughn.
Ask Billy Gibbons, and
ask Jimmy Page.

Ask the Stones,
ask AC/DC,
ask Kiss,
ask Led Fuckin’ Zeppelin.

Ask blues.
Ask rock.
Ask the radioactive center
of one of the few
pure American arts.

Who’s Buddy Guy?

Man, if you don’t know,
you better ask someone.

Damn, it’s enough
to give a man
the blues.

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