Every day I have the blues. "Hey poot, you been strayin from the right path," they've been tellin me -- these voices I hear comin over the internet. I'm thinkin it could be anybody who's got a high-speed connection. Could be politicians barkin like they do in DC and Trenton. Could be some chippy who thinks she's Lady Madonna. Could be some effin broker who says he's got my interest at heart or some crank I ain't seen for half a lifetime tryin to friend my arse on Facebook. Social media sucks if you wanna play anti-social.
Randy Crawford singin, "Every day. Every day I have the blues." Joe Sample ticklin the ivories. "Nobody loves me. Nobody seems to care." Hey, poot, tell me, how the hell did we do this livin thing without a constant soundtrack runnin in the background?
Could be a new-age Christian analyst wanting what's best for society. Sells Hyundais on the side. Could be the career counselor with halitosis and a wandering left eye who's been a fixture down in the Varick Street NY State Labor Department office since the eighties. Shakes his head every time he examines my unemployment forms. Could be the programmer who re-writes his dreams in code and wants to re-write mine. Or Buddy the Mechanic who taught me surfcasting out on the Island. Grilling fresh bluefish on the beach in the morning, he'd squint and say he'd spotted an ocean liner coming into New York harbor. I never saw a single ship.
Every day I have the blues. Oh lord, I'm gettin distracted from distraction, as the poet warned. Maybe need to move to an island in the middle of Cedar Lake. Lay myself down in a cedar grove. Gorge myself on berries like a cedar waxwing. Close my eyes, listen to the west wind sigh. In their little voices, the chickadees are gonna tell me, "Nobody seems to care. But we care." Go on, poot, turn out the stars.