Hot rumbling notions of bittersweet blueswomen
fog elegant sidewalks with the ghosts of tears
howling saxophonic testimonies to lies
told on history''and blame placed on love.

Street lamps and big cats wear my face gently
like a mask of painted poems and nude prayers.
In a midnight skylark jazz suite mode
the downbeat climbs its way back up to clarity.

Perfumed adagios of purple lull twilight to sleep
as rivers of winged reflections wake the power of dreams.
Feather and bone unravel while tongues of song
spit overloaded gigabytes of pain exploding faith.

Stoned lions roar nuclear lyrics about the way
it used to be never coming back again. Tough shit so
truly uncool. In a midnight skylark jazz suite mode
piano sorcerers translate prophecies of angst

into silk equations of bebop equals mc/squared sublime.

by Skylarking Aberjhani
(author of I MADE MY BOY OUT OF POETRY)

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