Pigboy Crabshaw Shakes His Money-maker
By Mike Marino

Early morning, dark clouds rolling in..now if this were Chicago, the dark black-thick clouds would be a deep blue, like the dark in an underground cavern, or the dank cigarette stale beer interior of some Bukowski saloon with hustlers and pimps and faded hookers and lost dreams..the jukebox stands lonely in the wee small hours of the morning corner, forgotten it’s promise of three plays for a quarter, a cheap street whore to say the least at that price, the kind with needle tracks up and down her arm, greenish hue with bruises and a shot of whiskey with a syphilis chaser and together, they all sit…stony silence until someone, probably from Cincinnati jams a quarter into the juke…the ancient 45 rpm takes it’s place on the spindle, while the needle takes it’s place in it’s waiting groove, moving gently caressing ly and almost lovingly, more black vinyl foreplay then anything else…it reaches Elvin Bishop guitar orgasm and Pigboy explodes in ecstasy…the mojo goes east-west, and keeps on moving, gyrating actually, in it’s own dream, not shared, the dream is a Butterfield erection, blues from the alley straight to the soul like a junkie jamming needle for a quick fix…Pigboy closes his eyes..enjoys the rush….Paul Butterfield Blues gently making love to a dark and rainy Sunday morning fuel injecting the writers typewriter to write right and rightly so, barflys and barkeeps, stale cigs in an ashtray, the music infuses the soul ..narcolepsy, necromancy, nothing fancy..just sex with the grateful dead…Pigboy smiles now…it’s a dark blue black morning, with a full mind sky of blues sunshine, and what the fuck, he got his blues on and his rocksoff…