Say What Now?

THE COLTRANE IN YOU

por il miglior fabbro

Meaning how tonight 

you sit and work 

at your desk to circle 

an angel or lion 

and poke the first coal

of an emotion

John’s gospel

splits wide open.

Meaning we observe

how inky-haired

& lightheaded, 

you float in the space

between to trace

a central question—

can a “reunion

of broken parts”

form a portrait 

of the Beloved

as Euler’s Identity?

Meaning we savor 

how the tint can serve 

at least half the sound

and apostasy can loiter

on the tongue as a lozenge,

so you and John—cartographers

on a moving train—

seek to phrase

a supreme fiction

—versus gothic of god—

to move us past 

mere ode or elegy.

Meaning we ponder

how at the wheel

of the warship of worship

you whirl as the square root

of minus one extending

chords which may turn

to maroon in the bluest

mountains of duende.

Meaning we start to see

how certain starred charts

—once incomplete—

could become guide

in a bitter suite

as incensed ropes of smoke

muscle music 

from hunger or hunter

—how want pays

to probe the pouty mouth

of imagination

or query the angel

and lion of Evangelion.

Meaning we trace

why the same L

which links them—

archaic name

for god or

vernacular for loss—

may seek a certain

etymology in your frame.

Meaning what if

the “good news”

concludes

the Beloved’s full name

is Apophenia?

I don’t know

if sufis such as

Trane & Rumi

learn all twelve ways

to kneel and kiss the ground,

but surely their 

chromatic Oh

resembles ensō

in modulation.

Meaning we wish

to learn how

to be drawn

so to speak

into a circle of fifths

or to Picasso piano keys

into a grand motif.

Does this re-choir

any Acknowledgement

of “our father”?

Meaning may now

become a minor relative

—or a relative minor—

a key to infuse Resolution

with a full-hipped logic,

to Bearden the burden

of our double basis

as battered sticks shatter

and every Zildjian

shivers into

a symbol brushed by

what seeps

through your horn

as Psalm.

Meaning we love how

since a talent may 

also be a weight,

your gift gives pause—

then purples

in turbulent Pursuance 

of relief, 

how wind from a box

spills bottled spirits

—e pluribus unum—

as if God was an American 

Sonnet massaged

into Wanda’s hands.

Meaning in the beginning

was the word

and the word was moan.

So you follow

Matthew & Mark

but sight John’s enchanted

—or merely chanted—

four syllables to carry

Miss Brooks’ theory

of the lyric between lines

which tonight—

as the angel and lion

conflate and conflict

—you train

towards wholly writ.