Blow bad Blues Brother Lateef, blow mean bad
Blues, with jump and
swing, and evv-a-thang! 'Til the 2 'Til the
4 'Til the 6AM sleepy time
when the sunrise sits just over Earth's eyes,
so languid on the
horizon.
Blow bad Blues Brother Lateef, blow mean bad
Blues the world has never
heard before! Blow to the Four Corners of the
Earth! Cover the sky
with your horny sax sounds swingin' with the
back-beat Boogie Woogie
of bar room brawls, Big Joe Turner, and the
workin' man drinkin' heavy
to ease the pain of being stepped on.
Of brothel houses, abusive spouses, bloody
crosses burning in the heat
of the night. Of blowin' a tire on the Cadillac!
Damn! Flat City
halfway to the gig! On the run, and caught somewhere
between nowhere
and nowhere at all.
Blow bad Blues Brother Lateef, blow mean bad
Blues of your hand
slidin' up her warm thigh. Makin' love to her
like you make love to
your axe! Sweet Sula momma snakin' hot tongue
down to your Medulla
Oblongata! Oh baby! Gotta go gotta go I gotta
go
Blow bad Blues with Brother Lateef, blow mean
bad Blues! Sing lullabies to the memories of
hot
Havana nights, drinkin' wild Cubano Rum,
watching Fidel and Che takin' back the banks,
Sugar plantations and kickin' out the Mob!
Ha! No mas Traficante for Santo's boys!
And Sweet Sula momma shakin' her hips not
two feet from the band, while Viva La Revolution!
raged just outside the door. Her cheeks and
muscles bulging with sweat, and the sound of
gunfire. The fabric covering her Sweet Sula
momma curves stretching to impossible tightness.
The shape is where it starts, man!
That's what Brother Lateef says when he blows
bad blues, when he blows mean bad blues,
and whispers: It's all in the tellin'. He whispers
this
in my ear, then blows a G Flat, stopping to
smile big
at me who is listening to him blow mean bad
blues.
Blow Brother Lateef. Blow those Blues in my
ear
and out the door to the streets where we the
people
need them. Where the sidewalks crack under the
weight of the heavy hearted whose hope is gone
with
the slash of a knife.
Send them out with a voice pure enough to STOP!
the fists that pound a
woman's bare white flesh on crowded Sixth Street
and Avenue A en el
Loisada as witnesses of all my colors stand
by cheering for more:
Yeah baby! Kill that honky bitch! Vaya!
Lay those Blues down hard to mend the broken
of spirit. The lost and
forlorn, tattered and wartorn, and when you've
comforted all of them,
turn your Blues to the one who looks into the
mirror, and calls
himself me.
Blow bad Blues Brother Lateef. Blow mean bad
Blues. And I'll meet you
out at the Chicken Shack. A bottle of wine in
my hand, with my soul
intact.
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