Jimi Hendrix (Monterey Pop Festival, 1967)

He plays for crowd
after sold-out crowd, strumming
his fluid fingers. If I
blindfold my eyes, he's
a famished philanderer,
a thirsty man sucking
a juicy peach or tongue-tying
cherry stems in knots.
Sculpted face and stone,
chiseled cheeks, billowy crown
curled, banded, chest
flanked in rusty frills, ruffled
silk on sweaty skin, head
swaying in sync with his hands.
Despite his controversy, he's a
genius
of grit and grace,
pained face, velvet voice,
his trademark stash framing his
upper lip.
He plucks rhythmic strokes with
his teeth
like he's licking a woman,
her spine tingling, flicking
the guitar's hollow navel, hands
lifting the electric lady
to his chin like he's carrying
a virgin bride over the threshold.
Young as seed and experienced
as Earth orbiting the sun,
the smoke from his mouth
levitates. His knees buckle, fallen
in prayer.
He conjures flames like a voodoo
priest,
taunts fire like a snake charmer.
James Marshall,
our six-string seducer, Jimi
thrusting
on stage, ax swinging.
If only he could come back, just
once,
for one more minute, one more
lick.

Originally published in Bouncin' and Behavin' Poems on Medium