From the Fishouse

Mom, mom…I want some milk.
—R.L. Burnside

I just found me
some blues
glued and jimmied

into a milk bottle’s neck,
big thing in a small space
like the busty chick

fronting that swart ship:
four foot leeward
from the Isle of Blues.

Four latitude and
four long from the back-step
on the extra beat.

Wind and gut-strings,
mimicking the straight talk
the sailor talks,

straight out his seat.
Teeth or no, somebody’s
got to do the talking.

Whether the compass
pointing to the Dirty South
is store-bought

or made to scratch a beat.
A needle is used
to scratching, like women

are used to fighting,
with their nails
like wine-colored shingling.

I’m a wine lid underneath,
so rubber stamp
your sterno ticket with glee

like Jazzy Jeff hand-clasping
a part on the Will Smith
show. He’s a real G—

reminder for reminder’s sake
of what used to be def.
How else is there

to avoid being left once
syndication hits?
And Jazzy was the talented one.

The bottle works the ocean
like the blues work
a pine guitar kit: emptily

and without good,
the same way
a mannequin would make

all kinds of music
about being a real man
if it could.