I consider you, in a somber bar somewhere downtown,
where you move swiftly somewhere beneath the smoke.
Alls that holds me back is the part of me which remains,
in a sandy plain with my liberated lungs.
In my right ear the piano skips keys in ecstasy,
delicately touching on my own fantasies.
All the while the blueness of reality hangs over me,
as the hum of the trumpet resists the piano.
My left ear, in it’s chastity,
still hears the echo of some native beat,
Ekwensu, Ekwensu! We know not the meaning,
but our chants surrender to the rhythm in harmony.
This Porkpie hides a meter of hair and beads,
Untidy nepali stitches are covered by this cheviot tweed
Occasionally it covers nothing by nudeness.
As I remain when I jump to the prudence of the crickets call.
I swing you in time to the hazy beat of a trumpet,
agreeing with it’s tainted story as I press on your lips.
Jazz is lost under the desperate roars of a lion,
which subdues more quickly, I have found, with more liquor.