Painting / Bob Thompson

Harlem Winter Blues

Hell is hot but I’m stuck on this here freeze, snow blind, watch me fall
Slipping on a mountain of snow, I need a shot, can’t bear this disease
Walking up a block, this ain’t no Czech Republic, but this here trees
Stand like wannabes, soldiers, shooting up the wind, blowing my mind
My nose is running, gunning, gotta get me some herb or purple soon
Don’t wanna sleep, but I gots to sleep, it’s ten below, up on a roof
I can see the snow, cold cockin’ white cocaine, do damage to my brain

Surfing the channels on cable t.v., from Real House Wives of Brooklyn
To Art Whores in Chelsea, sitting in the dark with my jammies on
Gots no milk, got packs of powder and some water, gonna make me a sip
Cracklin’ Bran Flakes never tasted so good, pour on the sugar

We gonna beat the blues into our system, hide in here ‘til morning come
Waiting for the sun, shoot it up with a gun, until the moon wake us up

Call up them dogs on Malcolm X Boulevard, roast us a red rooster
Keep the kitchen cabinets full of spice; pour on the loving all night long

We gonna beat the blues into our system, hide in here ‘til morning come
Waiting for the sun, shoot it up with a gun, until the moon wake us up

Gaining on a belly full, pot popping, our bellies go pop, weighing on me
Our skinny asses done get fatter, our welfare checks done get whiter
Why should we work up a nickel when we got paper, roll me up some
Make us some heat, cause we freezing at our feet, beat this cold air down

In this clear blue light, we washed up thugs, ain’t no summer to be found
We pissed ‘cause we ain’t got nothing new to wear, hang around like bears
On street corners with 40’s, doing shots of whiskey, cussing up them honeys
When we ever gonna take our asses to Miami, sit by the beach sip on a gin
Out here, all work and no pay, we grease monkeys, humping up on donkeys
Cold skin, stretch marks and tattoos, cum on the bed at a 40 a night hotel
Crawl back into the snow, outside, falling, holding hands like we making it

There’s no love in winter, you find yourself a shorty, make like chimpanzees
Wake up in the morning, cigarette run, sunny side up and black coffee
Like a lifetime of hiding out, climbing the wall, waiting for summer to come
So you thinking you’re Langston Hughes, gots a blues poem to write
But it takes you all winter long, all you gots is strife, no ink in your pen
Dodging them muses coming at you with snowballs, you ain’t good looking
You done grow a beard deep into your skin, you looking more like a lion
When you ever gonna cut your hair, file them nails or get your shoe shined

Sitting at the bar, you order up Irish coffee, be a man, do the Guinness
Your fingers tremble lifting up the cup, sure shot, your mind’s washed up
Gots a copy of a book by Stanley Crouch, getting ready to read on up
Outside the snow be falling like winter, jungle bunnies curled up in a storm
Every once in a while you lift up your head, if not the window then the t.v.
Weather man pointing at weather map, you wonder why you left the house
So you sip your coffee and read your book, thinking about Charlie Parker

You gonna beat the blues into your system, hide in there ‘til summer come
Waiting for the sun, shoot it up with a gun, until the moon wake you up

Call up them dogs on Malcolm X Boulevard, roast you a red rooster
Keep the coffee tables full of sugar, pour on the loving all night long

In your one bedroom apartment, there is no love; there is no sign of love
You get your groove on surfing the internet, you get your groove on

You max at the Match.coms and E-Harmonies, ain’t no love in a barely legal
So you hide inside that bed with a copy of Kansas City Lightning
Wishing you were Bird, blowing that saxophone, but you sure ain’t

There’s no bird in you, no summer, no spring, just a dose of Harlem winter
When the garbage trucks pass you by, water trickles from your eye
When the wind howls a brand new tune, you can’t wait for June
When the fruits at the market rot, you wish for a brand new pot

On a burning stove, rubbing your fingers, blowing into them
In a bowl you pour, burning hot soup, wishing all was well then

With every snow fall, comes an eye-full, a mountainous peek of ice
To wish a river from rain, to melt the ice, if not sun to turn it into slush