by underswansea

Cray was nailed in the head. Fuck, that guy could play harmonica. He cracked his big skull on the pavement. It was a shitty night. The rain had fallen for five days straight. The rivers were swollen past their banks. A bridge out here and there. The night he died a big dull moon rose before dark over a range of mountains that were snow capped. This was June and we all thought the snow had stopped. I’m not sure what we were more surprised about. Cray was playing like the damned, All Along the Watchtower. It was slow and then fast. There are artists and there are artists. Cray was a homeless drunk, but when he played you could imagine a toothless stripper with a killer body giving Lucifer a lapdance and instead of being afraid you would line up to be next. Some say he was running from the cops when he slipped. Others say he was found that way. Either way the cops put a couple pylons around him and told the morning commuters to move on, ‘nothing to see here’. The fucking bastards. No one knows how it went down. The sun shone for the rest of the summer after that but I wished for rain. It’s not often you get your way.