AND THAT’S THAT ON THAT!

 

AN IDEA OF IMPROVISATION 

AS A FREE JAZZ PRISM SENTENCE

(for Ashly Barry)

Do I mischarge your wine red pentecost 

to an atheist believing in faith

but still shoplift almost all the orange kink  

off your lips because it rubs in the ways

“librarian” is the sexiest word

yellow birds translate from dove language 

or net Coleman’s green calligraphy to

“Choke me & call me Blue Moon” in Old Norse  

with runes neither of us might decipher

or speculate from indigo bruise shapes

yet read “Negative Capability” 

to riff on the lavender grammar of

Apophenia’s domestic violets, well

—if you can’t be free, be a luxury.

Poems for Reuben Jackson.

Here are two poems that I wrote over the years that are dedicated to my friend and fellow poet Reuben Jackson. His birthday—the first since his passing—is in a few days. There are a ton of DC references in these poems and it might also be helpful to know that Reuben often used two characters-named Amir & Kelly—as personas in his poems. 

AN IDEA OF IMPROVISATION

AS AN ELEGY IN THE FINE PRINT

ON A BOTTLE
(for Reuben Jackson)

Outside Kogod's Liquors,
you feel a little shamrock

as you encounter

two Butches—
Jackson & Warren—
sipping from 

a Circle of Fifths.

It’s not easy being green,

even if your nickname is Petey.

A barely upright bass 

& a worn djembe
lean to take measure 

of the deepness 

of evening shadows.
A bumblebee sun

turns to tumble down

while you wonder

if the bottle’s label

is a mere emerald

or kelly green?

AN IDEA OF IMPROVISATION 

AS A BLACK AND TAN FANTASY

(For Reuben Jackson)

Riffing off Baraka you lament

“Nobody swings anymore.”

And who else swung like a 20 lb. sledge

or swifter than a belly dancer's hips?

Swung steady as Pops on the porch at night

or the well-oiled hinge of a garden gate?

Swung easily as Ella from a knotty limb

or a bridge of rope in a mountain breeze.

Maybe “All God’s Chillun got Rhythm”,

but who else swing an orchestra

like a hypnotist’s pocket watch?

Oh Reuben, are you sighing again 

about those humid Harlem nights

when the Duke of the dance floor

swung like a hammock in a hurricane 

with nary a hair out of place?

Autumn As Carmine On A Collar

AUTUMN AS CARMINE ON A COLLAR

Autumn leaves 

a light mark on a shirt

moving through what 

smells like a field, but

may simply be my feelings.

I do not miss the evening 

fires of smoky leaves.

Now these far off horn notes 

trace my ear to claim 

equinoxes can precede a rise 

or fall—without looping

into a cursive name.

At least not in this key, anyway.

The moon may still remain 

jealous of your glossy lips

and how they blessed me

while staying in constant ratio,

but I remain in my state

even as the harmonic minor 

of your winged eyeliner

modulates to 

a dominant chord—

and especially given

what was reflected

in your oversized glasses

—or why the handwritten music 

of those sheets noted

a contralto’s vibrato

could season any broth 

into a brothel because

seasons mostly wish

to fall into a deeper taste.

Carmine can’t of course

be the only shade 

of autumn leaves turning 

like handcuff keys 

into a semi-annihilation

of the self—or

even a tiny taste of it

unless my facial expression 

and your limbs relax

around what aroma, precisely? 

Still, let’s not insist

Little Red Corvette 

can‘t mean a certain lipstick 

repeating on a private playlist. 

Was there medicine in your glasses

and why did I doubt your choices

—given how I was amongst them?

The truth is my nipples

are vestigial, but perhaps

still sensitive to traces 

of fuchsia on your fingernails.

Do you continue to deny 

that swiping my merlot 

hoodie just highlighted

the lone in cologne?

Even still, the overtones 

of what was whispered 

never climbed any scale 

of longing—not mine 

I mean—even while slowly

outlined in red pencil.

The collar of memory could mean

getting walked like a bulldog, 

or perhaps pierced like a bull

with horns lowered

and nose flared,

as if all the black bulls 

I’ve ever been or was

imagined to be couldn't find 

any release from their rings—

nose or otherwise—

except in confinement.

Why did you peck your way

around my neck those nights?

Autumn leaves can fall

softly as secrets 

changing hands or keys

opening a topography of touch

we probably need to map, 

tho not as some gospel 

chanted in a church or brothel.

You likely won’t be back—

falling leaves signal that, so 

why ponder which chords 

major or minor would

reharmonize your scent?

Yet not even the jay 

which announces my name

could ignore this unfinished fifth 

of distant train whistle 

or how the leaves became

the light reign of your fingers 

circling my kingdom of skin.