There was a breath of bad jazz.  Dark curtains frosted over.  The jams

Of songs fled from the fingers to the valves on the horn.

“Where comes the sound?”  People nearby wondered.  The air became frantic

With cut notes.   Fractured and scratched from the blood of soul and sand, where

his life lay exposed on a cloudy chalkboard.

The apocalypse of intent feeds on the weak.  The strong fight with the pen

For the suitcases of words and the corners of thought.

Run the tires to the roads, shaking the trees and kicking up trash.  It’s a

Hollow land until the pockets are full.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s