As I started my way through the open mic circle a year ago, I was fortunate enough to meet a man who has become one of the most inspiring poets I’ve ever met. His name is Pasckie Pascua. Pasckie is a quiet man, but a man with a soul screaming all that is good in the world. I was immediately drawn in to his poetry because of his ability to describe. He paints pictures, worlds I just wanted to be a part of. We ran into each other on the Long Beach coffehouse scene and became good friends. We formed a poetry group called, Nomads of 4th Street, named after the street in Long Beach with so many open mics. We earned regualr monthly “gigs” at Viento y Agua Coffehouse and Borders Bookstore, inviting other local poets and musicians to join us entertaining those who appreaciate and support the arts. We’ve even had a few of my more accomplished Creative Writing students read with us. And while the status of our group is uncertain at this time due to various reasons, it has been my pleasure to call Pasckie an incredible poet, a Nomad, a friend.
You’ll want to read more of Pasckie’s work.
Lend me your ears, and hand me a beer
because I got the blues
a little bit of BB King or Lightnin’ Hopkins
but the kind of blues that makes you want
to steal the moon from a 7-11 store
chop it to pieces like cheddar cheese
on two-day pasta, add some 9-to-5 sweat
for salt, that’s my dinner–
that’s my kind of blues.
Lend me your ears, and hand me more beers
because I got the blues
like Muddy Waters of leftover bourbon
stained with frijoles blood
down French Quarter in The Big Easy,
“Hoochie Coochie Amigo Men”
and lost lonely boys in honky-tonk
Yeah, the kind of blues
that leaves your skin chapped dry
like an AmEx card that’s swiped clean
across plastic flesh, maxed-out and dead
like a fever that is cold in the outside
but burning like hell in the inside…
Your flesh pumps like morphine kick
like a 2-note baseline thud on concrete,
your soul is dead
as a rat crushed by subway panic
on 5pm rush.
I got the blues
rolling down my spine like ice, cold beer
dumped on a bucket of panhandled dimes,
the blues that makes me feel
like an overused and abused teabag,
squeezed dry and raped, mutilated
like black soot that inhabit
my nostrils under toxic skies
you can’t help it, you gotta take it
that’s the way it is!
So lend me your ears,
and hand me one more beer
because I got the blues.
The blues that speak to my soul
like Arizona bushfire thrust on Buffalo blizzard,
the kind of blues that makes me want
to drink more beer, more beer.
Now, brothers and sisters:
In the dark and cold
of this night, just one more time–
let’s play the blues…