Down @ The Crossroads

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The 85S corridor was niggardly with rain

Falling in slight slants sparse as last locusts

Unable to quench the burning brush

Behind the Crossroads Church.

 

Conversation turned to lightning strikes

When in the crack and glare

Of an atmospheric conniption

I met Robert Johnson on the Frontage Rd.

 

I tried to steal from him

What he bartered from the Devil himself.

But my voice was swallowed whole

In the misty swoosh of interstate commerce

 

Hegemony is its own reward, he said,

His voice parched and acrid, with a tint of hubris,

And never drink whiskey from a bottle

You haven’t opened with your own two hands…

 

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