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

A Query for Elliot

mr. robot 3.jpg

With thanks to Mr. Robot

 

Pictured you peeled back from sunset, that shadow’s step

ahead of rusted tabby receding hairline, pulled taut across

 

square-tusks of rooftops, shivering loose all the dandruff

ain’t fit to be gold. Compose a glow holed up from daytime,

 

drumming notes from the underground, rapping angles at

keyboards to bring a satellite down. Thought you would’ve

 

tapped the telegraph, crunched bitrates of Oxycodone,

compressed clouds into conversation, until tugged at, then

 

dispersed by slapping paw. Instead, tail wag at the terminal,

slip under Hubble without a scratch or a claw. After all,

 

favor that orange crush of windowpane from empty-set

of boxes, preferring Amazon over analog directions posted

 

by the front door. Coiled upon asking price, what do you

whisper in when tickling blank-space of search engines?

 

Ordering kitty treats to rid yourself of mouse breath after

a kill?