I Dreamed I Saw Hendrix Playing the Banner

[billy]

hi vista. who didn't love hendrix
i like it. at present it has to much baggage, (words that or phrases that do nothing.) i've bolded a few out below. some good images that would cause stirring in the heart of a hendrix fan. go through the poem with a fine tooth comb and take out anything that isn't needed, i think it's one of those poems that needs to be as sparse as possible in order to pull the reader in. (i've bolded some stuff there are more). I'd try and work a bit more on the enjambment as it looks a bit forced without working as well as it should. the title and the first line clash, would it work better if the first line were

"I Saw Hendrix Playing The Banner"

i don't think you need to any major changes, just an edit for the niggles. thanks for the read.

"I Dreamed I Saw Hendrix Playing The Banner"

I dreamed I saw Hendrix, early on a Monday.
The crowd was a fraction of yesterday's glory.
Rain-soaked mud anointed those of us who stayed.
Jimi looked at the crowd, but he seemed not to care.
Some Gods do not require the worship of the masses
before setting them free.

"I see we meet again," he said, before his pick got dirty.
Electricity filled the air, his long black fingers whipping
the frets with the strings of his Fender. I've never
heard a woman moan in such a tantric manner.
He takes words from Dylan, then parts the
Red Sea with with his own melodic punch.

When he played The Star Spangled Banner,
The Vietnam War played out in his notes. a suggestion would be something else instead of played as you've just used the word
A mother heard wailing over the body of her dead
Child screamed out in torturous and merciless
Bending of three guitar strings.
The sound of bombs falling through the air
Whistled with the choking compression
Of his tremolo bar.

In a sweltering Asian base camp, a radio is
Playing the music of Jimi. It sends the Cherries
To a different place, if only for a minute.
In a damp open field in Bethel,
His music takes us to the place they
Are trying to forget, intertwining our open
Field with their dense jungle, our mud
With their mud - our music, their hymn.

When he left the stage, it was high noon.
The sun shined bright over mud that had
Dried on my feet, hands, and face. When I
awoke, forty years had passed, but 27
Is immortal; he lives in dreams filled with
Mud and war.