You Feel Me?

AN IDEA OF IMPROVISATION WITH THE UNCERTAINTY PRINCIPLE—Take X

bluesy notions of a freer jazz with ashes buried under some trees by a ¿bob? cat in a different key

These are amazing:

I quietly shrug and enter

what are not shrubs

but a bramble of edged petals

that scratch and itch 

with the promise of 

bluish fruit which could perhaps 

—beloved—be

chromatic points 

but not a pentatonics

as in The Blackberries

singing of an ache

one might lapse

into and risk crimson.

I am still.

I am still seeking

not knowing

if a light blue note later

the hidden position 

of a thorn section

could pierce the i 

or for a time mitigate 

with a pound or

a hug once dug 

by Kearney from a pond 

in a Pointillist poem 

deep tidal desires 

which beg tailoring

by Cécile or Mackey 

or Cecil asking about

fruit & thorn being 

both elegy & ode 

to what they signify

as we try to caress

“Le Front Cache”

or even the knees 

of a more natural man

or Haitian woman.

Assume our souls

are a handy myth

—is our speech 

a mere performance

—beyond the velocity

of lossy phrases—

to model or yodel emotions

or evoke Harryette mulling

over a syntax of velvet

deities that Apophenia—

our supposedly fun diva—

mimics to bray or splay

as wounds on walls 

around Gardens of Truth

but not as velour

as the most crimson cry?

I am still.

I am still quieting

which I can’t explain

but does this approach

the mouth feel of a trio 

Moten leaves

to shade or abrade

my parakeet feathers 

—to color such loss

or what feels lost to elegy 

unless I begin to dig 

my berried desire

with a silence bladed 

nearly to the point 

of a sound science?