Blues Bayou Review /

Blues Bayou Review

Mucked in the bayou,
Sucked into the sofa,
A low place to go.
Depression's destination,
Resignation, abdication,
Mired in gloom's foggy glow.

The tides ebb so slowly,
Yet swiftly, and deep.
Emotional currents flow,
Against opinion and fact,
Prince William Sound's
Just another type of coral reef,
From which we must grow,
Grow, seeking to know.

Sweltering, sultry, humid,
Sticky Houston heat.
Skin dripping sweat.

Sun's heat,
Earth's air thick,
Particulate, particularly observable,
Oppressive.
My body, and soul,
Almost beat.

To squeeze a survival
From this destruction,
Leaving less than nothing,
In its wake.
Proceed as the daily challenge,
Another feat to be beat.

Emotional hide
Like snake leather.
With a child's curiosity,
Virtuosity, animosity,
Protected safe within.

Armed with the forked red tongue
A cobra poised to strike,
Sauntering, slithering,
Somewhat astray, disaware.

A time deranged mythological minstrel,
Balladeering a lifetime away.
When succumbed to a quip of delusion,
I seek a real 'zation,
Of some better way.

A philosophy,
Something to believe,
Some precious holy words to say:

Nothing I see
Means No thing.*
Such a stark, albino, absolute start,
But, perhaps, there's no better way.

Pulling myself unstuck,
Startled to realization
By some red rooster
Crowing morning's luck,
From the blues bayou.

War gurgles, bloody,
Too near Holy Shrines
In Mecca, and Bethlehem,
And my back yard.
Sacrilegious sanctimonious sluts
Defile civilization.

Terror, more frightening
Than any Saturday night movie.


What happened to
The good old theory
Of love, love, love,
"All you need is love."

Comfortable melodies,
A rating high,
To which you may dance
If you dare.

Words that still ring true,
All you've got to do. . .
All you need it's true. . .
Is love, love, love,
"It's easy," say the gay blades
In the Yellow Submarine.

It's only a cartoon.
What you see is not real.
God's stunt life.

Nothing I see is real.
The only meaning it has
Is what I construct
From my perspective
Stuffed, here,
In the muck of emotions.

Was it ever so easy?
Was I ever so young, naive?
Must we wear with such difficulty?
From a first-born baby's state,
Life becomes our rouge stained estate,
Keeping up our guard,
Keeping out the love,
As if good fences
Really did make good neighbors.

Stuck in the muck of the blues bayou,
It's difficult to know
Which way to go.
How to get out.
How to even give a shout,
From being stuck
In the sofa's muck.









* From "A Course in Miracles"