Cold Was the Ground

dark was the night

Blind Willie Johnson huffs in my ears
weeping into God. How easy to loop
the past into a soundtrack, light digestion
& here’s Willie, scratching life into the air
carving out sight & sense in the squall
So many spills, paths of only one take
So simple, the hatching of intrigue &
sloppy way we invent moments to be sad
I walk at the trees as if I have knowledge
secrets of their past, I don’t, but confidence
is a clever accessory. This winter walk
these minuets stall the loud, awaken the soft
my ears, warm with the blues
my eyes with the slow mountain
& the snow, suspended in a mid-fall spill
erasing out everything that came before


By Alicia Sometimes



the amp, the kick & the pretty kitties

‘I could picture humiliation and people talking about me afterwards.
I could picture the whole audience just standing there judging.’
Liz Phair

i slip by the mike. throw trashed words into laps.
my bass is chalk. the dearth of the carpet shows.
especially on the sad ones with the grenade smiles.
my words are mint. the cigarettes heckle for space. even
the beer droops & backs off after i punch padded pop
at the purists. i’m lost for stage wit. i say something
about melted T-shirts & thump at my axe. more porn
dancing in the corners &  record men with old pens.
soaked beats. when the chorus comes
i’m found out like a junkie.

counting the heads. how many have the potential
to love me? guitars stretch out over sundays. too many
shoes have been used as belts. this ending is pastry.
the feedback is messing with my encore. i use
the drum kit as a cubby. i slippery dip the last note &
land in late. (Kim Gordon would never fumble like this).
i catch an angled wink. this headache is yesterday’s &
my voice is holed. i wait for the rider so i can give it
to someone else & go home.
this isn’t poetry
but it’s too wet for rock n’ roll.

By Alicia Sometimes

First posted @aliciasometimes