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Blues Chant Hoodoo Revival
- Wesleyan University Press
- Chapter
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Blues Chant Hoodoo Revival my story is how deep the heart runs to hide & laugh with your hands over your blank mouth face behind the mask talking in tongues something tearing feathers from a crow that screams from the furnace the black candle in a skull sweet pain of meat let's pour the river's rainbow into our stone water jars bad luck isn't red flowers crushed under jackboots your story is a crippled animal dragging a steel trap across desert sand a bee's sting inside your heart & its song of honey in my groin a factory of blue jays in honey locust leaves wet pages of smoke like a man deserting his shadow in dark woods the dog that limps away & rotten fruit on the trees this story is the speaking skull on the mantelpiece the wingspan of a hawk at the edge of a coyote's cry 8I from Copacetic the seventh son's mojo hand holding his life together with a black cat bone the six grandfathers & spider woman the dust wings of ghost dance vision deer that can't stand for falling wunmonije witch doctor backwater blues JUJU man a silk gown on the floor a black bowl on a red lacquered table x-rated because it's true let's pour starlight from our stone water jars pain isn't just red flowers crushed under jackboots my story is inside a wino's bottle the cup blood leaps into eight-to-the-bar a man on his knees facing the golden calf the silverfish of old lust mama hoodoo a gullah basket woven from your hair love note from the madhouse thornbushes naming the shape of things to come old murder weapons strings of piano wire let's pour the night into our stone water jars this song isn't red flowers crushed under silence 82 N EON V ERN A C U L A R [34.230.77.67] Project MUSE (2024-03-29 10:02 GMT) our story is a rifle butt across our heads arpeggio of bowed grass among glass trees where they kick down doors & we swan-dive from the brooklyn bridge a post-hypnotic suggestion a mosaic membrane skin of words mirrors shattered in roadhouses in the gun-barrel night how a machine moves deeper into piles of bones the way we crowd at the foot of the gallows 83 from Copacetic ...