By Mark Lager
From Fall 2017
News came down to me, William Johnson, about Columbia Record Company I hustle just enough change to ride the train to Dallas and freeze standing outside Waiting, waiting, waiting all alone that winter night Until white men’s voices guide me upstairs to a hotel room I feel like Jesus in the temple starting his ministry Jesus and me both begin at age thirty He could see all of his disciples as he sat on the mount All I have is this microphone three minute songs as I sit on this rickety chair I tell them about my mama Mary about His blood This time I can shout as loud as I want And tell them to tear all those Customs Houses down no police here to fear I hear the white men’s voices they’re packing up to leave I hear them say “It’s getting late.” I’ve got no place to stay it’s going to be so cold tonight My throat is torn ragged but, Lord, I’m not finished Lord, no pain of mine is as lowdown as your pain I see your mama Mary her teardrops splashing on your scratched face I see my mama Mary my teardrops splashing on her withered face I scrape dried marrow from those holes in your hands and feet I scrape your wounds, oh Lord I scrape dried dust from those corners of my mama’s eyes I bend these strings kneeling knees, crooked spine digging the dirt of my grave