Risin Sun Goin' Down
I don't really know what's going on in this. It's just a tiny drabble, of sorts. In legend, the crossroads were a dangerous place, where they hung criminals so they wouldn't be able to find their way back. It was easy to get lost at the crossroads, and they represented more than just the physical plane.
Robert Johnson was a guitarist from the early 20's, right when blues was getting off the ground. He is said to have been a terrible guitarist--but that he made a deal with the devil, and that he got really good all the sudden. Whatever happened, it paid off. Although he died young, he's still well known. Plus, he's got that cool bit of legend around him.
I went to the crossroads last night and stood awhile. The dirt roads reflect the silver full moon, and four long ribbons stretch against a black landscape. There’s a hangman keeping me company, and the wood squeaks as his weight shifts in the breeze. His eyes have been picked out by crows. He turns his empty gaze towards me.
“Going to be here a while?” He asks.
And I say, “Maybe.”
Robert Johnson stands opposite me, singing ‘bout the devil. He finishes and nods in my direction. I tip my head back. It’s going to be a long night.
Hecate comes around two. It’s the hour of the wolf. She’s lead by a pack of dogs with eyes that glow with hellfire. She stops and stares down at me and I stare back. “You’re new here.” And it’s true. She’s evil, or she’s not, but I’m at the crossroads, and things could go badly. “Don’t follow the foxfire.” And she’s gone. There are many places for her yet to go, and I don’t hold her interest.
Not much later, a dead man (another one) comes by. He looks like he’s seen better days. But, so have I. He smiles a red, grisly smile below his solemn lips. I think: I’ve got strange company. He sits down and taps his foot to the guitar music. I wonder if I’m out of place, or maybe if I’m finally where I belong.
Just as the sky is getting light in the east, the fire comes, a score of tiny, jumping flames that promise false warmth. They have no faces, but they are giddy. The man with the red smile and Robert Johnson stand to leave. “We gotta go.” Robert says, and he motions towards the dead man. I look up at the hangman. “And you?” I ask. “Oh, not me. I’m always here. And you?”
“No, I don’t think so. Not today, but maybe tomorrow.”
Robert Johnson was a guitarist from the early 20's, right when blues was getting off the ground. He is said to have been a terrible guitarist--but that he made a deal with the devil, and that he got really good all the sudden. Whatever happened, it paid off. Although he died young, he's still well known. Plus, he's got that cool bit of legend around him.
I went to the crossroads last night and stood awhile. The dirt roads reflect the silver full moon, and four long ribbons stretch against a black landscape. There’s a hangman keeping me company, and the wood squeaks as his weight shifts in the breeze. His eyes have been picked out by crows. He turns his empty gaze towards me.
“Going to be here a while?” He asks.
And I say, “Maybe.”
Robert Johnson stands opposite me, singing ‘bout the devil. He finishes and nods in my direction. I tip my head back. It’s going to be a long night.
Hecate comes around two. It’s the hour of the wolf. She’s lead by a pack of dogs with eyes that glow with hellfire. She stops and stares down at me and I stare back. “You’re new here.” And it’s true. She’s evil, or she’s not, but I’m at the crossroads, and things could go badly. “Don’t follow the foxfire.” And she’s gone. There are many places for her yet to go, and I don’t hold her interest.
Not much later, a dead man (another one) comes by. He looks like he’s seen better days. But, so have I. He smiles a red, grisly smile below his solemn lips. I think: I’ve got strange company. He sits down and taps his foot to the guitar music. I wonder if I’m out of place, or maybe if I’m finally where I belong.
Just as the sky is getting light in the east, the fire comes, a score of tiny, jumping flames that promise false warmth. They have no faces, but they are giddy. The man with the red smile and Robert Johnson stand to leave. “We gotta go.” Robert says, and he motions towards the dead man. I look up at the hangman. “And you?” I ask. “Oh, not me. I’m always here. And you?”
“No, I don’t think so. Not today, but maybe tomorrow.”