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Janis
Joplin and the Foldling Company
Twenty
bracelets and cackle later,
Janis spins her gut out on my turntable:
resurrects the needle of destruction
that O.D.'d her away from me.
"Summertime” shivers the matched speakers
as the phoenix in feathers
lays her funk on me
o so heavy—
o so real—
she's crawling through the cloth
dragging the phallic mike
to her roughed-up mouth while her
jivey hair scurries like brown
pack rats
into the Fillmore night.
It's JOPLIN! in pink satin and chains,
stoned on Southern Comfort—
phlegming the floors—
grinning in oversized grannies—
hyping the crazies to ball in the aisles;
screeching and beseeching kinky
strays to go "Down on Me."
Hippie queen of smack and
bluesrock
boogied her "now thing" full-tilt
before and behind the boards,
worked her blowsy feet
in hookers' shoes
shuffling their action like a hot deck
of Vegas cards:
relieved her gin-mama self
sitting on stopped-up toilets
digging the myths of manic Zelda.
"Hey, sisters ... hey, somebody. . .
give a rousing fuck for Pearl!"
--Bayla
Winters
Copyright © 1989 by Free Lunch Arts Alliance
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