THE DANCE When the world ends, I will be in a red dress.

When the world ends, I will be in a smoky bar .....on Friday night. When the world ends, I will be a thought-cloud. When the world ends, I will be steam in a tea kettle. When the world ends, I will be a sunbeam through .....a lead window, And I will shake like the .....semis on the interstate, And I will shake like the tree .....kissed by lightning, And I will move; the earth will move .....too, And I will move; the cities will move .....too, And I will move, with the remains of .....my last paycheck in my pocket. It will be Friday night And I will be in a red dress, My feet relieved of duty, My body in free-fall, Loose as a ballerina .....in zero gravity, Equal at last with feathers .....and dust, As the world faints and tumbles .....down the stairs, The jukebox is overtaken at last, And the cicadas, under the eaves, .....warm up their legs.

NINAS BLUES Your body, hard vowels In a soft dress, is still. What you can't know is that after you died All the black poets In New York City Took a deep breath, And breathed you out; Dark corners of small clubs, The silence you left twitching On the floors of the gigs You turned your back on, The balled-up fists of notes Flung, angry from a keyboard. You won't be able to hear us Try to etch what rose Off your eyes, from your throat. Out you bleed, not as sweet, or sweaty, Through our dark fingertips. We drum rest We drum thank you We drum stay.

LEADBELLY You can actually hear it in his voice: Sometimes the only way to discuss it Is to grip a guitar as if it were Somebody's throat And pluck. If there were A ship off of this planet, An ark where the blues could show Its other face, A street where you could walk, Just walk without dogged air at Your heels, at your back, don't You think he'd choose it? Meanwhile, here's the tune: Bad luck, empty pockets, Trouble walking your way With his tin ear.

IM A FOOL TO LOVE YOU Some folks will tell you the blues is a woman,

Some type of supernatural creature. My mother would tell you, if she could, About her life with my father, A strange and sometimes cruel gentleman. She would tell you about the choices A young black woman faces. Is falling in with some man A deal with the devil In blue terms, the tongue we use When we don't want nuance To get in the way, When we need to talk straight. My mother chooses my father After choosing a man Who was, as we sing it, Of no account. This man made my father look good, That's how bad it was. He made my father seem like an island In the middle of a stormy sea, He made my father look like a rock. And is the blues the moment you realize You exist in a stacked deck, You look in a mirror at your young face, The face my sister carries, And you know it's the only leverage You've got. Does this create a hurt that whispers How you going to do? Is the blues the moment You shrug your shoulders And agree, a girl without money Is nothing, dust To be pushed around by any old breeze. Compared to this, My father seems, briefly, To be a fire escape. This is the way the blues works Its sorry wonders, Makes trouble look like A feather bed, Makes the wrong man's kisses A healing.