Passing For Blue
by Donnie Cox
— For D.N.K.
“The blues is a black man’s music, and whites diminish it at best or steal it at worst”
— Ralph J. Gleason — Jazz Critic
My best friend
died last year,
in a 24-hour store —
shot by some shaky kid
when he walked
in on a 32 dollar holdup
to buy a pack
of Marlboros.
He was a blues-man.
He knew more
about Robert Johnson
and Tampa Red
than Amiri Baraka — or Leroi Jones.
He used up most of his time,
and all of his options
preaching to the blue
multitudes, jammed
into the cheap neon
playgrounds, along
the whore-haunted streets
of late-night Memphis;
where no accusing eyes
ever questioned the
heartfelt disguise, he wore
like an invisible man.
And on the day
his ashes were
tossed toward
the rain-polished sky,
there were no
sad fans weeping,
no sanctifying poetry
from Langston Hughes,
just a southbound
breeze to ride on,
for the white boy —
passing for blue.
Copyright © 2004 D.B. COX. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
