upon a trombone,
lit into skies, falling into destiny; passion of the panther, sight of the
jaguar, appetite of the leopard; aside a saxophone, naked wars, fierce nightness.
the soul filled
with organs, deceit guiding miracles, I watched before it was over: bolder
binoculars, inauthentic cries, a life to its mercies; baked senses, a palm of
peanuts, reopened, discarded.
maybe I want too
much. maybe I gave too much. a half of a hundred, his last five grand, even a
soul’s eternity.
I held a harmonica.
I pondered harmony. I fled the harmonica’s roots. nothing comes to its
deliverance.
I was absent. I attended.
I wasn’t there.
I was present,
alert, lost anyhow; upon a trumpet, as for triumph, it might not come. those
days at a feeling, seated in public, waiting as it warms softly.
actually, a nice
person, just in rain, just in power; it’s not my place, upon a mat, to have any
feelings for authority … some beg to differ.
I passed a jelly
tree, in North Hammond, I paused, I thought of essence—unspent on dreams,
rebuilt in territories, somewhere inside, the building was unbuilt.
it’s amazing the
fierceness. eating wild grapes, chewing a coffee leaf, passing a sherbet tree.
