No he did no song and dance nor did he read he just wrote and I never read it. I never did read any of his stuff. From his journals along life’s way. Course I know she had a page or two that Maddie. From what Benjy burned. And I know Dulcy read some. But he didn’t do much writin’ in it after Benjy died noways. He journaled his life from oh ’bout nineteen and forty-one to fifty-five then eleven years were lost in what Benjy burned the year Dulcy had Solomon the year cousin Aaron and that Maddie died. But after sixty-six the entries are sparse. Kinda like he had nothin’ to say like he’d let us do the talkin’–us’n his children. Like what you learn all about in mercy me and that ain’t fair–best to let the other folks do the talkin’. Because when you talk about yourself it can keep you up nights–it can. But when you let other folks talk ’bout themselves you sleep like a baby… No he did no song and dance the day Dulcy was born nor the day Dulcy had her first child and nine years later her second. He was a regular cat-napper. And besides he had all the song and dance you could want with that music of his what when I first heard him bathin’ in a pool of light–seems so long ago I talked about Man and God–faith… He has all the song and dance you could want–devil music I ‘spose I’d call it now how the young girls dance to it half-clothed and sweatin’ what you hear in juke joints all over the South what I heard when I was girl in New Orleans and over in Algiers behind nondescript doors on streets near the railroad tracks or the water far from the plush green and gleaning wood of street cars on St. Charles with them French homes the front normally restaurants steamin’ plates of gumbo and boiled crawfish on newspapers the back where the musicians is a floor for dancin’ where the worn wood tables stop a bar to the side the guitar players sittin’ there on stools between sets sippin’ on Two Sisters cocktails a table for checkers and chessboards behind’em and a pool table or two always some hustlin’ goin’ on. Yes–the music. In the haze of cigarette smoke the steam of Cajun food and sweat Yes the music even in my old age and brittle bones hips no longer any use for sultry swayin’ nor child bearin’ even in my sickness I feel it where we always feel it the heat-lust the moistness the Sex Sex Sex…

…and it took me a long time to find out my mistakes. Bound and twisted in a cocoon torn to pieces the chrysalis now but an empty shell as I expand and harden my wings what was in now out the warped truth beneath me and all its lost purity of suggestions to those who would not know the truth if it came to them what parents deny in themselves horrified to find it in their children–sexuality with its attendant yearnings jealousies trials and taboos–the most impudent impulse humans have how we try to conceal this little hell we have in ourselves and try to pretend in public it does not exist and when caught up in it how helpless we are. Sex–the freedom we could have if we were but not tricked and trapped and enslaved and tortured by it. Yet it is this that makes us human. And so I go in I go in that darkened door advertised by neon lights out of the wet street the steaming vents the empty beer bottles in the gutter the paper scraps fluttering I go in with my old guitar case and I hear that moan that devil moan that turnaround slide I learned so long ago how the soul is in the egg and I think of Rosie’s bed me up in there up in there in between those legs the buttocks clenched pumpin’ and I say Oowee Oowee Baby…! and the seed like the blood is dripping from the ceiling the pots and pans there to collect cum-splattered like gunshot residue of leaking roofs leaking pipes after a hard rain and I say Yes Yes the Devil’s here to collect the guitar is silent there is no more song and dance I alone in the dark in the dark drinking alone in a room alone in my contempt. Old…