Outside the outer perimeter lies a land
scorched by spontaneous combustion, split by
a meandering, wild river barging trouble.
Passing through another grasshopper town
you are nearing vistas of grapes where you will watch
the crushing and fermenting of all your troubles.
You can’t know the blues before thirty and by fifty
you’ll still act a fool flagging down a train
just as it derails with its cargo of trouble.
For some reason the Mississippi calls me
as surely as Clements called out “twain” and the
slaves called it Old Devil River for all its trouble.
He convinced me ‘not ready for radio’
was a great name for a band with no frontman.
As usual he was bullshitting his way out of trouble.