How bitterness rises :: from habanero held to the flame
roasting garlic :: onion in the pan :: cabbage simmering
 
like tear gas hanging in acrid streets,
metaphors of the tongue grasp the headboard of the sky
 
in a gentle drumming of fingers up the spine of the horn
a swarm of swallowtails claps clouds of pollen from their wings
 
rain has etched our spirit as aging glass
wind has worn our edges like a badge of courage

There's a club - down on the lower east side
of the universe :: just around the ogee corner
from Hilly's on the Milky Way - there's a club called the Black Hole.
Stars stream in day and night. Any matter
that matters is there or getting there :: the most
powerful attraction, greatest aggregation, it's the Basinist.
 
The Black Hole is the place to be :: where the heavy
cats hang :: the players :: and there's no chromaticity
without reflection light being lighter than sound
so nobody is ahead of their time the time the time time time
no superfluous conversation there each one knows
the cycle and all the players get paid
 
the music is so dense you almost can't hear as notes
and you are pulled inexorably into the jazz
just as waves tickle cilia, gone, almost as soon
as you hear almost as soon as thought infinitely metered
a breath at a time breathless each breath breathes
into world's wind blue all you can hear vibrating
in your nerves and sinews now