The jazz
and the junk
crawled like
ants with cymbals
on their feet
jungle marching
inside his head
yelling to his
snazzy fingers
to blow notes
with pounding
and circling like
witchy winds
scratching hard
at the air
tearing a hole
and blasting
the music
smacking flat
into faces
smiling broad
from the sound
blowing upside
down and straight
with curves
escaping from
that horn.
Roger Singer 