Blue Sky, Part II

They want a poem

about jazz music

as an understated triple clef, a hip

to trombones tapping that ash off

syncopated soft curves, because

that bared marrow crackling

of rap on the avenue

won’t sound right.

 

So speak the jangle of lawn chairs,

the rattle of revolvers locked in

broom closets, conducted by

passing car door speakers—

keeps an eye on the breath of children

over dark night. Having already

turnt the soil, the earthworms

into sour milk from that timbre

of slouch and high lark.

 

So when the skies feel parched

remind them of the Mayans

tossing human heads down temple steps

to the same beat that built the calendar

 

and a fire’s smoke

inventing zero.

mayan wayne

Blue Sky, Part I

They want a poem

about fingertips

dipped in sugar,

how they reek

of blue sky,

even while jazz

muddies up

the corner.

 

Where scrawls

of Tobago

in tobacco chips,

calling brown from

way back, re-encrusts

the concrete

like Oklahoma

dustbowl.

 

Before we worshipped

the sun, we worshipped

dirt. All that was above us,

brought us fire.

 

But sometimes

just the pale drought

of blue sky.

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