Howie And The Angels

I see you as a kid, Howie,
scruffy teenager, 25 years ago,
even then one step ahead
of the shrinks and the bureaucrats.
You listened instead to a midnight healer,
night attendant in the nuthouse,
who pulled salvation from his vest pocket,
a blues harp, one note above
the medical notes, a blue note,
transporting you to heaven.

You must have known
when they confiscated your harp
and put you in seclusion for playing it,
that you really had something there
an instrument of power
to carry us away.

I can see you coast to coast, playing those chords,
homeless in New York,
blowing all the way to Oregon,
Oregon to New York, New York to California,
Berkeley to the Bowery, back to New York
playing on your harp that same blue note,
pied piper of madness, songs for the crazy folk,
rounding up the strays
before they can cart us away.

I can see you now, Howie,
though God knows where you are,
you brought your harp along
and rounded up the angels.
You organized a heavenly choir
and added crazy rhythm.
You're up there blowing your heart out, Howie,
you finally made it home.

I hear the angel voices calling,
"Crazy and proud, crazy and proud."
Play it again, Howie.
Play it for me.
We hear you, Howie,
Take it away.

Sally Clay
March 18, 1995

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