FROM THAT HORN

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

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