The Second Time I Thought I Nearly Heard the Voice of God

The second time I thought I nearly heard the voice of God,
it was amplified with the intake of air through the bent blue-note humming
of a palmed harmonica, tuned to the key of my heart’s backdoor.
And that door has been locked tight for so long
that I had begun to doubt in its existence – forgot it was even there.
It’s kept out so many offerings that seem too good to be true -
from men in business suits with briefcases
to youth in white shirts on bikes.

But the second time I thought I nearly heard the voice of God,
a man came to the backdoor and cried until his greying flesh tinted blue.
And when a man cries the blues, you’re going to have to try to listen.

I invited him in and began to apologize for copying his licks
in a future improvisation when he stopped me,
his breath floating listlessly in the air, the way that time slows to a near stop
when you know that something almost certainly grievous is about to occur.

“Listen here son.  Ain’t no one judging here -
I’m only trying to find some meaning in all these notes
and you can’t copyright sucking and blowing -
it’s all some of us have been doing for years.
Sometimes it’s the only synapse between the heart and the atmosphere,
and sometimes it’s because I’m . . . desperate.
You ask any musician, truck stop inhabitant, or neglected homeless girl
about desperate and you’ll feel the sucking and blowing . . . deep down
in your gut,
unsettling,
like the evening news
or the day you come to terms with the fact
that we are all going to die.”

The temperature had cooled to the point of being noticeable.

“We are all going to die in the end, and that’s the easy part.
It’s living that has tried men’s souls for ages:
Age 6: Developed a fear of stairs – learned that step- anything was nothing
good and started skipping everywhere I went.
Age 14: Skipped school and found a friend in alcohol,
the underneath of clothing, and bike-riding.
Age 22: Peddled bicycles door to door and tried drafting a suicide note
but couldn’t find my writer’s voice.  Began fiddling in Bluegrass.
Age 30: Found my voice again in the music of my past
and forgot what it is to age at all”

The second time I thought I nearly heard the voice of God,
it sent shock waves through to my feet and sent me away skipping.
Made me forget the first time I thought I heard the voice of God.

I still keep doors closed tight but I live a little harder and step a little lighter -
listen more attentively for the sound of a voice,
amplified through blue-note harmonicas
and tuned to the key of my heart’s backdoor.