Soloing Out into the Atmosphere

 

Sun carving inaudible grooves

across the table where I sit;

sun stretching lazily across

the white cap of my coffee cup;

sun at autumn, yellow and hot,

falling like water onto my hands,

face, arms.  5 o’clock

sun outside, and I’m inside

Starbucks, sun pressing itself

like a face to the window panes,

charismatically leaking, jazz

floating overhead, mellow

as an orchard in the fruitful dark.

Listen to that trombone good-

humoredly fluttering,

piano providing jumpy structure,

guitar weaving slow intricate

patterns, melding into the flow

like a strong supporting actor

stepping into the scene and

stealing it.  Been reading

William Everson, his voice

surging throng-like through my fingers,

master of rhetorical poeisis, whose

imagination shocks like

electricity, so breathtakingly

powerful are his swerves,

leaps, drops, improvisations,

soloing out into the atmosphere,

where, almost seventy years

later, another dying animal

picks his book up, leafs

through his leaves, and finds

the very tenor and pitch of

one’s heart nailed piercingly,

pleasurably, to the brick wall

of that man’s deep song.   

 

 

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