A tesseract not of text, but texture.

 On the off hand chance that anyone was wondering—this is currently the definitive version of this poem. 

SUBTERRANEAN NIGHT-COLORED MAGUS 

theme & variations on a phrase from Amiri Baraka’s “Wailers”

“Subterranean” implies

miles deep in a mine shaft 

of being—cored by minor intervals 

or subtext rich with King Oliver's ore 

once bourn from the motherlode 

as if indigo undersongs 

or seismic solos 

on a tectonic trumpet 

dissolving into Richter’s scale 

til You're Under Arrest

for spelunking funky rhythms 

or scaling Seven Steps to Heaven

to paint Sketches of Spain

all up under the canvas 

til it bleeds

All Blues out the other side 

I hear the son of a dentist 

doing rootwork with a hoodoo horn 

hollering Bebop toasts 

was you Petey Wheatstraw 

Satchmo’s son-in-law?

maybe a signifyin junkie 

with a monkey on his back 

perhaps Shine below the Titanic’s deck

shoveling until 

you could blue like Bird 

or freight like Trane 

early like Bird 

then night like Trane 

wing like Bird 

yet rail like a Trane 

rumbling underground. 

“Night-colored” implies sable 

as a mile of tamped tarmac or 

a nocturne rising on raven wings

jet in the sky Round Midnight 

or a cast iron kettle with a Bitch’s Brew funereal past the repast

so black, it's Kind of Blue 

maybe not slick as black ice 

or cool as black snow 

but sweet as black cherries

on the Downbeat 

like a blackjack 

black jackhammer 

black Jack Johnson 

black Jack 

of all trumpeting trades 

three shades past inkblack

to Vantablack 

or oilblack 

cinderblack 

kohlblack 

bootblack stomping

the bottom of the hole black 

indecipherable prints of darkness

is that a black tube cutting off blood

to one arm—black ring 

darkening a woman’s eye 

do I see a keloid fraught with

what you fought with 

your black turned to the audience 

bleeding coolly into colors of night. 

“Magi” implies muted druid

of the blues

Traveling Miles

to follow charted stars

Miles in the Sky 

O Dark Magus, keep us minders 

of the metronome On The Corner

O soloing Sorcerer with E.S.P. 

O high priest of improvisation

testifying in a funky Tutu 

about 5,280 feet 

climbing 1.6 klicks 

in search of Amandla

electrical Live and Evil 

blowing East St. Louie's Blues 

but In a Silent Way

to take Blue in Green from Bill 

or cast a net of knotted cords 

around Bag's Groove

O Magi buried in imagination

say So What and make Milestones

crash the stained-glass windows of jazz 

have mercy, Man with a Horn

O style more joyful noises till we

rehearse more verses of Sufi Blues 

and Orisha run the Voodoo down 

to rework our square roots 

into modal scales or ghostly notes

as we waif in this water 

wholly dark and deep 

with miles to go before we sleep 

with miles to go before we sleep