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George Kalamaras
Winter in July for Johnny Winter
February 1944 –
July 2014
So, bikers from So, women in tight jeans slurred hips that said
denim blue is the only
blues. So, every one of us that night had visibly aged,
had glacial drifts qualming down our hair. And you played for us two sets, Johnny, and And I was with you, my brother, revisiting, resurfacing
Highway 61. And you
were the Mean Mistreater, beating back my heart with the blood of your
axe. And when you rasped “Jumpin’ Jack Flash,” I
swallowed your tattoos. Your arms, a-swirl in ocean depths of ink wells
before it was cool. And when you changed guitars, the guitar found you,
brought to you—by a band-mate—on your stool. I remembered 1971, first hearing
Live Johnny Winter And. The
year struck in my throat. The word
and joining all the bad of my
teenage sad.
You were a guitar-slinger, Johnny. Your six-string
gun still stinging my gums. The way your blues roamed through me loose as if my
mouth might finally stray it right. “It’s My Own Fault,” I sang with you over and
again, sorry it had taken me so long to finally catch you live. You could barely walk off stage after your
blistering set.You weren’t sick or old but a scrap of blue metal plated
to the stage. How I grieved you, Johnny. Grieved
for you, swallowed in those
tattoos.
How the squid took your arm. How the needle made its bite. How you finally found a way to jump the junk and
keep it clean. How it’s always our own fault when the cards fake
dice. When the road churns dirt. When winter comes in July. And a white, white cloud—shaggy across the
plains—is the cut of your hair, aching the stage. And Highway 61 is never Highway 16. Or the bus from How do I live now, knowing you’re not there—always
twelve years ahead of me since I was fifteen, bending the bent of the
road with your axe?
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