Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Jist Jammin'

The lights are low.
Smoke is so thick; 
You can just reach out
To take a handful, 
To put in pockets
Of faded denim.

Somewhere, 
Deep in the mist, 
A solitary guitarist sits.
Slouched on a beaten up bar stool.
Strummin' slowly on an acoustic.
Bottle-neck slide wails from the pressure
Of a real bottle.
The gob-iron moans, 
In harmonic reply.

The air is filled, 
With the smell of tired sweat.
Formed by hard labour
Of a day in the field
Or on a hot factory floor.

Bootleg booze, 
Piedmont cigarillos, 
and Cheap cologne.

This is blues, 
At its best.


Dusti Rodes (2007)