“I’m a black man in America. If I live for more than a minute, I’ve outlived my lifespan.” — Chappell Hayes
“Get outta that kitchen and rattle those pots and pans.”
“My daddy had that cut on a 78,” Chaps says to me as we listen to Joe Turner’s “Shake, Rattle & Roll.”
For a moment you’re a young boy in your Indianapolis living room in the 1950’s, growing up with the Blues.
Slowly and painfully you rearrange yourself on the tired couch, like the cancer that has rearranged your life.
“I prayed this morning,” you tell me,
“and for a moment I felt my shoulders straighten up.”
Each of your sentences are full paragraphs of thought and explanation.
“Do you know what I mean,” you ask.
You’re crying and I’m crying,
Fred’s in the kitchen washing dishes and hunting for your pills.
The Blues ain’t nothin but a moment of grace,
as we stumble for our place
in your West Oakland living room.
A chance to sit, hold your hand,
and gaze into your beautiful black face.
I lean over and kiss your forehead,
while Little Walter shouts out
from across the room about needin’ some “Dead Presidents.”
A small smile crosses you face.
For a moment, peace.
Charles Brown sings, “I’m drifting, I’m drifting,
like a ship out on the sea.”
For a moment, a little less pain.
The Blues ain’t nothing but a moment of grace.
as we stumble for our place
in your West Oakland living room.
Outside, on Helen Street, the scene unfolds slowly:
The grocery/liquor store opens,
guys hang on the corner, trashed cars are pilin’ up,
the police slide by.
The road towards grace leads to your door:
If it ain’t Blind Lemon,
it is the kids at the wood shop you established;
If it ain’t Bessie Smith,
It is the struggle against apartheid in South Africa you courageously fought for;
If it ain’t Muddy Waters,
It is your daughter Sele;
If it ain’t Howling Wolf,
It is your wife Nancy.
Here, in this all-to-brief moment,
the blues ain’t nothin but a moment of grace.