I’m happy to announce that my first poetry collection, The Blackened Blues, is available wherever you buy books (yes, *wherever*, so you don’t have to put more money in Rocket Man’s pocket; you can go directly to my publisher, Finishing Line Press, or support my pals (and 1455 partners) at D.C.’s The Potter’s House).
THE BLACKENED BLUES is part of a large and ongoing project that discusses (and celebrates) some of the author’s personal heroes who remain far less celebrated than they deserve to be. As it happens, many of them are musicians, hampered in various ways by discrimination, ranging from old fashioned racism to institutional and cultural indifference. Though there’s an elegiac sadness suffusing these poems, there’s also acknowledgment of defiant genius: they fought their battles bravely, in their art and in their lives. This collection seeks to capture something (or, hopefully, more than a few things) essential about their lives, bearing witness while also paying homage.
I’d like to introduce the collection, one poem at a time (in the order they appear in the book), and tell a little bit about the inspiration for each, by way of explanation and in tribute.
Next up is “Richard Pryor’s Flesh.”
Of course, Pryor spun this personal mishap (video below) into comedic gold, but –like so much of Pryor’s best material– it comes from a very deep, dark place. But Pryor, in addition to being the best stand up comedian ever, was an exceptionally deep, dark man. The image of this genius, bottoming out on his freebase habit, lighting himself ablaze (attempted suicide? very painful and dramatic cry for help?) is sui generis; it’s a generational metaphor and, for me, one of the definitive tragedies that illustrates the toll our world takes on our most gifted but tormented souls.
Richard Pryor’s Flesh
Take, eat; this is my body which is broken for you…
(How many times did we hear that, back in the day?)
This cup is the new covenant in my blood…
(In remembrance of Who? Which Way Is Up?)
The light shines in the darkness…
(Do you see the light?)
And the darkness has not overcome it…
(Lead us not into temptation.)
But deliver us from Evil…
The church was our school and vice versa, both
things we outgrew as we grew out of everything
they beat into us. So many switches swinging
in the winter wind, breaking our backs because
this hurts you more than it does me, thy will be done.
Cast them into the furnace of fire—now we’re talking.
Every man who tells the truth has to take the heat:
Face it, eat it, bathe in it, and pour lighter fluid
on the flames—this is just what a genius does.
Sacrifice him there as a burnt offering…
You see, the gods demand abnegation, their alms.
Mere mortals can put cash in the basket,
but certain sorts of men pay a different way—
the kind of currency that leaves singed skin
and scars: that’s the price of admission.
When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned…
How? Bodies are only boats, surrounded by the spirits.
Why? If you have to ask you’ll never know.
Prove you mean it, that means you’re real.
This life only hurts because you’re alive.
