Monday, January 16, 2017

Robert Verdon, #421, the disappearing bruise of my latest depression

Rust and rubbish hidden beneath the magnolia
that was apparently sown by birds just before I moved here,
a decade in which I escaped death for a while
as we all do, and busied myself tapping at keyboards or wrestling pot-plants,
I’m not sure why.

I’m also uncertain 
as an ill-balanced vintage analogue computer
whether I should plan three more (or so),
or a slap-up funeral.


  1. Please plan. The man. The magnolia.

  2. the slap-up funeral is magnificently dark


  3. Blind Willie McTell's "The Dyin' Crapshooter's Blues"

    Little Jesse was a gambler, night and day
    He used crooked cards and dice.
    Sinful guy, good hearted but had no soul
    Heart was hard and cold like ice
    Jesse was a wild reckless gambler
    Won a gang of change
    Altho' a many gambler's heart he led in pain
    Began to spend a-loose his money
    Began to be blue, sad and all alone
    His heart had even turned to stone.
    What broke Jesse's heart while he was blue and all alone
    Sweet Lorena packed up and gone
    Police walked up and shot my friend Jesse down
    Boys i got to die today
    He had a gang of crapshooters and gamblers at his bedside
    Here are the words he had to say:
    Guess I ought to know
    Exactly how I wants to go
    (How you wanna go, Jesse?)
    Eight crapshooters to be my pallbearers
    Let 'em be veiled down in black
    I want nine men going to the graveyard, bubba
    And eight men comin' back
    I want a gang of gamblers gathered 'round my coffin-side
    Crooked card printed on my hearse
    Don't say the crapshooters'll never grieve over me
    My life been a doggone curse
    Send poker players to the graveyard
    Dig my grave with the ace of spades
    I want twelve polices in my funeral march
    High sheriff playin' blackjack, lead the parade
    I want the judge and solicster who jailed me 14 times
    Put a pair of dice in my shoes (then what?)
    Let a deck of cards be my tombstone
    I got the dyin' crapshooter's blues
    Sixteen real good crapshooters
    Sixteen bootleggers to sing a song
    Sixteen racket men gamblin'
    Couple tend bar while i'm rollin' along
    He wanted 22 womens outta the Hampton Hotel
    26 off-a South Bell
    29 women outta North Atlanta
    Know little Jesse didn't pass out so swell
    His head was achin', heart was thumpin'
    Little Jesse went to hell bouncin' and jumpin'
    Folks, don't be standin' around ole Jesse cryin'
    He wants everybody to do the charleston whilst he dyin'
    One foot up, a toenail dragging
    Throw my buddy Jesse in the hoodoo wagon
    Come here mama with that can of booze
    The dyin crapshooter's - leavin' the world
    The dyin' crapshooter's - goin' down slow
    With the dyin' crapshooter's blues.


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