TC Baylor poem honors Hendrix

Bargeman’s Song (for Hendrix)

TC Baylor

took a 45 to my head
bout a hundred year ago
still got that bigbore beauty-
mark on my soul
butterflies and rainbows . . .
thought I could touch the sky
but ole iron McCluggage
gets in the way

ole man river just carry it away . . .

y’all don’ know what goes in there
till you been a deckhand a summer—
till you swept buckets of coal
till you swep’ buckets of salt
till you swep’ buckets o grain
off into the river,
into ole man River

coal and grain and salt
dead rats and mice, fish floatin’
topside after another bucket
and another bucket
and another bucket
ah, fuck it—
throw it overboard—
let the water come and carry me away . . .

My purple haze got a shit-brown stink
comin’ off the Illinois,
goin’ down to Mississippi
sink in the tombs off dead N’awlins;

My purple haze got a smogbad taste
salt and coal and grain filtered
through a cotton diaper, copper tubing, and
cooked down right in a cracklin’ kitchen
fire-fatcat done ate dat rat downtown
an’ mercy ain’t no word we knows . . .

My purple haze got a shit-brown stink
screamin’ Mary downwind at the watchtower—

Beauty ain’t in
Beauty ain’t in the eye
Beauty ain’t in the eye of the beholder—
Beauty is the eye
Beauty is the eye of the beholder
till it scums with white blind death
and smells of river bottoms
sewage raw as nature intends . . .

Color ain’t nothin’ but a difference
a difference of this and that
what tells one from other
ain’t no color in the riverbottom
ain’t no mercy, no color, no difference,
no justice, no love nor hate,
sho’ as hell ain’t no forgiveness

Are you washed in the blood . . .
ain’t no washin’ in the riverbottom
go in a king and come out a leper
go in a prophet—come out a corpse
bloated colorless and equal as the day
you was born, day I was born, day we all born . . .

All along the riverbottom
currents cry Mary
with its crush of old age and wisdom
will it ever remember
names it has drowned
in the past?

My purple haze has a shit-brown smell
and tastes of carp—scored an’ fried up

Peoria knows of rivers . . .
deep as hatred and longer than a slaver’s lash
shallow as race-wars and American genocide,
but with a memory like a catfish can live
years in dried mud till the next rainy day

Abuse me—cause I can’t kiss the sky!

My purple haze has a shit-brown smell
and tastes of political backwash:
bullshit fed to a starving folk to gain votes
and narry a nutrient in that dinner wagon

shall we gather at the river . . .
everything gathers at the river
rainwashed till it rolls down
one way or another
“all the shit that floats . . .”
as they say, as they say

and so castles made of sand . . .
even landlocked in Peoria
fall into the sea
eventually

I met my Dolly Dagger
she’s a stripper on down the street
and it ain’t blood she be drinkin’
from that jagged edge,
no that ain’t blood she be drinkin’
that shit smokin’ from a jagged edge . . .

who’s got a million days
to daydream, Jimmy?
Who?

We done seen the scenes
a million kids and papa down
at the whiskey houses
ain’t no waterfall, no waterfall
and rainbows show the water bad
and that’s just the good side . . .

hurts as bad as bad love,
hurts the same
iron pipe or a papa’s pride
can get you dead just alike
and . . .

your castles in the sand
melt into the sea
eventually

My purple haze got a blood-red stain
soakin’ in like Mabel’s carpet
soaked her life when Little Benny
found a little pink stick
what told him his pimpin’ days
was over far as Mabel—
swingin’ a hammer was easier
than growin’ up and bein’ a man . . .

another castle in the sand
rots into the sea

My purple haze is a blazin’ bruise
where probable cause concussioned
me right out of the best job I ever had—

There must be some kinda way outa here
I ain’t the juggler,
and I sho as hell
ain’t no thief!

Man gotta work . . .
but jobs are scarce, at least
jobs we ain’t fightin’
scavengers for—

“My kingdom is not of this Earth”
I been waitin’, my Savior,
my sweet Lord,
but my flesh is weak
where my spirit is wronged
and the sweet everafter
ain’t comin’ soon enough
to save a starvin’ man . . .

who ain’t no man cause he ain’t
got no job . . . how can a man
be re-spons-ible when The Man,
who ain’t nothin’ but a scarecrow
stuffed with circumstance, rides
us down his economic whirlpool?

Another castle made of sand
melts into the river
we have known.

River risin’, ice-flow flowin’
wish I was
stone free—do what I please
but some mother’s son
sings Foxy Lady to my li’l sister
and that ain’t right;
at fifteen, Jezel should be in school
not husslin’ brothers and others
down dockside, up at Pier Marquette
her pretty little head
should be filled with rainbow and dream
but when the crack-shot snipers
in a river slum come
to make her a ho . . .

another castle made of sand
sunk into the sea
prematurely

Warm clothes and a good bed
don’t make a man a man—
what do? What makes a man? A man?

Down here, Jimmy, all the lights are red
and none turn blue tomorrow
we are the traffic jam
this is the other side of town . . .
all are castles made of sand
flowing to the sea
eventually.
Eventually.

Under McCluggage,
too much clouds your
sea of forgotten teardrops
they ain’t no lifeboat
to float home to love
her love, your love
my love, good love
bad love, tough love—

that fern don’t grow
where the water’s fill
with salt, and coal, and grain
and the bargemen toss their buckets
and toss their buckets
and tie their lines
and tell you

“it’s all good,
Ole man River
gonna come and
wash it all away”

with those castles made of sand
sinking to the sea
eventually.

My purple haze got a mud-black stink
and tastes of crow.

My purple haze got a rotten fish taste
and smells of stolen fortune.

My purple haze, Jimmy,
smells of Night Train and
what I got out BK’s dumpster.

My purple haze, Jimmy,
ain’t worth singing
till spring and summer comes back
with barge traffic,
buckets over the side,
jumpin’ carp and cussin’ boaters.
Till then, Jimmy, I’m here
under McCluggage,
in my castle made of sand.