I’m going down where them railroads entwine - where them railroads entwine. Where them rusty irons once was sacred - where no sorrows could life confine. But where them echoes of the cast now - them echoes of the cast - keeps a troubled mind doubtin’ ‘bout something holy, mighty and vast.
Them mean ol’ hounds - them mean ol’ hounds - Lord, I hear ‘em howlin’ as the tears of mine abounds. They’re comin’ - I know they’re comin’ - they’re gone to snatch my soul. Them mean ol’ hounds of hell - good Lord - don’t leave me out for them eat me whole.
I can feel the flames upon my flesh - the Devil’s on my trail again. The hooves of his dances with the beat of my rattlin’ ball and chain. He’s gasping in my neck now, I sense that stench of sulfur on his breath. He’s singing on a sombre strophe ‘bout the cinder winds of death.
I’m going down that endless path - down that endless path. Lord, have mercy upon a young mans soul, that’s in the iron grips of the Devils wrath. Send down your angels - send down them angels singin’ me a hymn. ‘Cause, Lord - I am exhausted - and that last sight of hope is gettin’ dim.
Early morning sketching’s in full work, March whispers with its fresh air through open window, coffee’s warm and the Appalachian mountain ballads fills the room.
I’m all good.
You used to write to me.
Small notes mostly.
You said you liked writing to me.
You said you liked my writing.
You even said you wished your writing was more like mine.
I said, don’t say that. You said you loved my typing;
that my letters ran over the paper;
like lovers ran over golden meadows;
like a girl would’ve wrote ‘em.
I said, don’t say that. I said,
it ain’t nothing, it ain’t much.
You said, don’t say that.
You said, this is you and
that is more than enough.
I remember you said you liked my writing
because I wrote about, not only the mountains
and the sea, but the dream about it – the road to it.
You actually believed I could write about anything.
Anything worth writing about, with my words only,
and turn into something that makes
a person yearn their soul dry
to get to it.
But there ain’t many of us, you said.
Ain’t many that actually gets to it.
You said you loved my writing.
You loved my writing, you said,
because I wrote about anything -
anything – anything – anything
worth writing about – you said.
Big words about freedom. Honest words about life.
Troubleminded weeping blues for the lonesome wolves,
heavy hearts, hard times and hobos on their trails.
You said I could write about anything;
You always said the Mississippi river were runnin’ in my veins. That my levee’s built high enough to make them waves overflow and drown us both.
You said I wore the blues on my skin.
That I knew lifes long pissfilled gutters well enough to have that very genuine laugh you told me I had. I remember you loved my laugh - as much as I hated it. And that alone brings one of them silly smiles on my face now.
Those were fine days, friend.
You often said you seldom felt as good as you did when you and me were nothing but you and me. Ain’t no use being difficult, I guess. But I never understood what you meant.
I’m no good with feelings. You know.
I remember you sitting on my oxblood-leathered sofa, right under the window – as the beams dances solemnly sweet through your brittle, little glas-lookin’ hairs; shimmering majestically, as everything else was shaded by the ghosts of that cheap bootleg whiskey I had on my bureau, next to my cigarettes I kept in that tin case with that old time-lookin’ map on.
Those were fine days, friend.
I believe that levee’s breaking.