Over Nine Feet Tall
I am a David in a land of Goliaths,
but I have no smooth stones to throw.
So I’ll throw what is around me:
insults, curses, raspberries, threats, spit, soliloquies, pennies, yawns, and clumps of my hair.
I’ll strip off all of my clothes and bundle it into a big ball and throw it at you until I’m lying naked on the ground crying and laughing as I wait for your sword to strike me.
Then I’ll throw my watch.
I’m Just Fleetwood
I got dem don’t-understand-the-blues-but-lamely-trying-to-get-the-blues-blues again, Momma.
I can cite
Johnson, Waters, Hooker, and Wolf.
I own the essential recordings,
waiting to be heard
next to my worn out copy of Sgt. Pepper.
White Album white.
Not Barry, but Jack.
Learned about the blues through
Stones, Zeppelin, Cream and Yardbirds.
Don’t get the blues. No clue.
You’re boogie chillin’ with shades and fedora,
while I’m mackin’ it Apple style with polo and khakis.
Your waters are muddy while mine is filtered and chilled.
Your wolf is howling while mine is warbling.
Don’t get the blue note. No patience
for the blue note.
I want chords.
I want them now!
I want three and a half minutes of
fuzzed-out, distorted, squealing, riff-heavy, peddle effects
Abrasive and loud like torn pages from a history book.
Maybe through the distortion, I
won’t hear myself admit that I’m
confused and don’t get it.
Knowing that you—the Blues Man—are The Man.
You are hip, cool, with-it, fly, the mac. And me?
I’m just Fleetwood.
Profile: BJ Jones