Sympathy For Robert Johnson

Yes, I wish I could say that
I met Satan at a crossroads
just outside of town, that
in exchange for my soul, et cetera…

As for Robert Johnson
—the man himself—
I’d wager that the woman
leaving with his luggage on that train
leaving with his love in vain,
she’d have more to do with his pain
than Satan ever did.

Lips drool while the beating chest
falters, falls somewhere inbetween
lust and dread and
loyalty and despair and
love and withdraw…

Drugs, hard liquor, Internet pornography—
Satan with his poetry
is but one of many ways
to soothe an aching heart,
to recover wasted ecstasy,
or to finally trace the horizon
of death.