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.
Roger Singer 