b b king at the lied

BB King Blued at the Lied

walking into the vanilla den of smart
lincoln nebraska on a saturday night
1995 midwestern corn fed hipsters
fresh from the muggy air of the plains

i sat on the plush cushion
a burgundy plush
and looked about trying to find
those who knew among the crowd

there was the gaggling of small thoughts
spent upon the blue air of the center
the smell of perfume and a little wine
wafted in and out of the nose

the lights went down and the small band
lit into a smoky slackjawed beat
that lovers on steamy nights make love by
and just as slowly the man walked in

a shaft of brilliant white light
knifed through the steam and noise
and onto his bulk with sparkles
squinting from the guitar at his side

the crowd went silent for an instant
the silence was there and absolute
before the air exploded in recognition
of the king and the court rocked on

he was an old man not the young hipster
i knelt beside listening to the rips and groans
coming from the bakelite philco radio
back in the days when we all knew more

the horn player cradled his brass at ease
and his head rocked side to side
touching his shoulders as the drummer
grimaced and the beat picked up in volume

deep inside the dark
in silhouette against the depth
a lone bass danced booming
the deep line pounding in the chest

the salt and pepper head leaned over the mic
with the sorrow furrowed on his forehead
and he wailed out the truth of it all
"the thrill is gownnnnnne" and we wept

holding his guitar and shaking it’s neck
the strings wailed and cried so lonely
and so sad you wanted to shout grief
even as you laughed inside and showed your teeth

the horn player spun his head around
and blew into the mouthpiece
the shriek of a dying man
a heart dead even as it beat

the crowd was on its feet and bobbing
ready for the basket of snakes
heads jerked back and forth
and arms flailed into the electric air

from the back of my shoulder
a woman whispered "oh my god"
and the prayer shook forth
and was echoed across the sauce

sweat began to tickle on foreheads
and the sax man allowed his horn
to have carnal relations with the mic
and the reedy growl arched over the crowd

and the beat, man, the beat
the levitation was complete
and the beat walked up and down
and across your chest and brain

the old king shuddered at the mic
and his expert fingers found their peace
and whipped up the neck of the box
ringing desperation on the slide

when it was over and the seduction
was complete and wrung out
the crowd of white skinned hipsters

melted into the jazz puddle and wailed

and the old man held his guitar at his side
and offered the top of his head
to the crowd and we all knew
and we all laughed into the sweaty air

boise jul 2004

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