Poem for Jimi Hendrix

Laid back in the tempest,
herald of the night’s other
darkness and its wishes,

you remain light’s incantation,
solar high, muse-tormented,
thundercloud sent. Where

the crowd walks by, a bored
unhappy choir, we are blessed
in a prism of sound: you

transpose creation while the
world kills grace. There is
nothing but dying. If death

too is nothing, let cyclone
blues congeal beneath a sky
of no human domain. Let

hunger to extend the sun calm
the demons, rage and war,
with chords gold-fisted

and melting on newborn skin.
In a cycle of twenty-seven
winters, you, shy mortal,

have used maps for sails
and walked a nuclear highway
no bluesmen have seen. Then

used without love, in the love
generation, you have drowned,
a legend, in vomit of your sleep.

(from the book 'Routes')