Roger Singer

The spin of his
jazz
rolls in grand
circles
twisting, tumbling over
angrily
into a voice of growls
loosed
into solid dog eared
words
flea bitten and worn
thin
like harvest
fields
he shouts up with
blazes
of fire unquenched
spreading
as if kicked from
hell
setting up swirling
sparks
flaming the starving
Souls
inhaling the gots and the
gets
stirring the dead from
sleeping
in a death almighty cold
forcing
alive breathing like
summer
warm with evening
dancers
slapping sawdust out of
souls
as their feet dig into a new
language.