|||
A shot of vodka and a cup of espresso
legs nervous and walking all night
past the art galleries, some open
some closed with oil portraits
of screaming popes and the smoke
of patchouli incense escaping
windows from apartments above
the changing traffic signals
dance through the stops and buttons
of a mother-of-pearl saxophone solo
rain splash of cymbals and snare drum
piano like wet pavement lit
by the neon signs of bars
and package stores Plymouth rocking
all these pilgrims of macadam
a sedan of accompanying
sopranos cruising red skirts
and little shores with their barking
dogs shuffling through the ant mines
of discarded and glowing cigarettes
turmoil rent overdue and eyes
going blind as a power cut
to an airport at midnight
Here is just another preview
from the green hymnal where birds sing
and corns grow. I came to Earth
with burning stuff and that Jesus
on the froth of chattering seas,
beautiful the stream of knows,
shared the income of our rise,
dew, all life, the women with the bread
and shots of whiskey instead of wine
and rocks in place of soft places
to kneel. There is a reminder to fill
out the black, shuffle to the left
or right, make room for your neighbors,
let in the light from the fresh air
windows, and write in black ink
in the black page journals, and be sure
to tell us who you are.
Clarinet jazz refrain
like a team of prisoners chained
together at the ankles,
resurfacing the highway
in July.
Like a line of 1956 Oldsmobiles
waiting for the signal
to cross the bridge.
Then the birds come,
thousands of them.
You thought they were extinct,
but you were mistaken.
Deputies with ebony batons
march in step
on the gravel shoulder,
bright sun, no shade.
Then incongruently
there arises a fantasy
of Christmas carols, sleigh rides
and pies,
that mysteriously transform
into “Take Me Out to the Ball game.”
Everyone wants to talk
to the woman
in the blue Olds,
even the prisoners,
though they are punished.
The woman adjusts her wine
red babushka
and puts on her sunglasses.
