Sympathy For Robert Johnson

Yes, I wish I could say that

I met Satan ad a crossroads

just outside of town, that

in exchange for my soul, et cetera…

As for Robert Johnson

—the man himself—

I’d wager that the woman

leaving with his luggage on that train,

leaving with his love in vain,

she’d have more to do with his pain

than Satan ever did.

Lips drool while the beating chest

falters, falls somewhere in between

lust and dread and

loyalty and despair and

love and withdraw…

Drugs, hard liquor, Internet pornography—

Satan with his poetry

is but one of many ways

to soothe an aching heart,

to recover wasted ecstasy,

or to finally trace the horizon

of death.

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