Warble

A bloodless
coo—
hear on my hands

A mud flipped
slew—
eye on my lands

A rare balmed
lip—
trip in the stands

A birdless
flue—
spit on my hands

B-3

What to do with a series of love theories?

Or with the unburied profiles of the finite
dead?

Open-eyed
I race restfully, considerate of
too many decades, of their mind-clatter,

searching such patter
for their stranger presence,

their potent berths, a flower and series
—chord progressions emitted

his beige gas-lit harmonium
in type,

escaping air,

and never swaying foolishly
along

to a jump-blues song’s
completion.

Factory Juke

You know I’ve seen my buksta faced grandfathers,

having a time of it,
on
their farting asses:

Whoop whipping it up, a cry
like laughter,

slick busting those black
neck bells,

slide up, and a slide down,
through a horn curved dark.

Well the holyman
was holding,
got busy Fats speaking:

“Once red bottled Coke,
all Houston
is slide.”

Before canoeing a guitar (daisy yellow
and dusting, in a black corner).

The red spoon did pine, remain
spending his dime,

his last
three days
of nickeling worth change.

And the gray (green-grey Aaron):

a survival afoot,
a left a loom,

inside a soft,
soft, blouse

of cloth.

Then groping up ground
to her denimed blue,

right near close
to his right pit,

tips flicking
too, hard swinging
them blues—

a “Sweet Georgia Brown”.

At last, gave her a bug.

Tweaking on brass,
damning up the minted mud.

No felt tip there, was just
shtupping with a stud.