The I and the i and the Home,
swept to froth in that deep-deep-dish.
‘n there ain’t a way I’m lettin’ you take this.
but they’re right, they’re right again,
ain’t worth the effort in the rage.
But god, god the sublime in that rage,
don’t it, don’t it just have some *purpose*
the way it licks the edges of things,
that dead-end blood-tint ‘n all it’s little pleasures.
‘n it ain’t easy to forgive,
ain’t to forget.
but the rage,
the rage.
The I and the i and the Home,
self-writ trinity in reach,
‘n you’ve got that rug-pull trick to up ‘n show.
‘n for all that,
for all that,
I gotta ask,
how many have you ‘n your little dog stopped to watch?
Sunrise.
Those grays ‘n pinks ‘n yellows ‘n oranges ‘n reds soaking the sky,
the best is always those not-yet stormed days,
when the black clouds roll in from the west,
deep swooping black on crimson red skies,
the feel of rain on the wind.
‘n Moses is callin’ from that charger of his,
them levies crackin’
flood-waters–
flood-waters comin’.
The I and the i and the Home,
we got this here deep seated love of the Mississippi.
Always tryin’ to be our heroes.
flood-waters comin’
‘n god, god that sublime rage…
hope you got them sand-bags ready, kid,
’cause this storm’s got that slow southern gait.
