Heart Still Achin’ Fer Muh Ol’ Geetar

I am nothing short of a hobo; a tramp and a scuz if I gets drunk on some of dat Bo Jangles Blueberry Wine, only costs thirty-three cents at muh nearest market. Mr. Jack says fer me to take myself a couple of bottles. I did. I thanked him. And offered him my last twenty-six cents. The next day I cried like a long, lost child in some think woods because Mr. Jack, somebody said, died in his sleep in a one-room walk-up on the north side. Missing him, I know, will not be enough.

But when muh pain gits more than I can breath, I think of that ol’axe, a musician friend of mine, who give me a gift of this wood and strangs, I lets my heart that still aches fer muh ol’ geetar. Yes, ma’am, I do. Don’t really mattuh what color I am. Or what place I take muh sleep. All I knows is that I have gest a month, maybe more, to take that long, endless walk way yonduh in duh skies whur no pain or lying lips can open duh door. Just us old geetar stringers with a foot on a table and a foot in Jack’s grave. I will be okay . . .when I have that old ‘electric Fenduh ahold of my hand. I will have a big time, man.

then this will make you igneerant. Nobody tries to see or know how my side uv the fence is. Theyze just trot by while I used to play dat ol’ Fender and rock my life into tomorrow’s sunbeams. Even if I don’t have a woman or man for ears fer me to talk to . . .I hide behind this ol’ Fender and still ache fer muh ol’ lectric geetar. Talk about it, wise men.

When I wuz younger, I was a “Slickster Sam of a Salamander,” tellin’ easy lies, watching dolluhs die and me secretly beggin- for one moah gig to play. Sir, you see, I needed the money even us young folks is not immune to bein’ poor. But mistuh, make this my epitaph, simpul and naked. I facin’ duh Dark Man stands by muh conah ‘round the block in de shadows. Boy, iz it cold of a nite. Even when he stands that lookin’ like a bitin’ snake to me. I can’t fite him. So I will give up . . .and still let my heart ache fer my ol’geetar.

and de goez. Gest like de rain, dat cold rain-a runnin’ down a broke winder in deh hotel lobbie whurs I sleep iffen Miss Gomez iz on duty. She’s a nice gurl. Very nice. Too nice to date. You young bucks can’t unnerstand dat. But I did. I remember well when me and duh buddiez would crash after a night uh geetarin,’ ginnin,’ and drunkard’s grinnin. Yees, ma’am. Doze wur deh daze. Now it’z only me, muh think grey mop on muh head and face--and live on duh few moments when I still hurt when muh Heart Still Achin’ Fer Muh Ol’ Geetar.

January 8, 2020______________________________________________________