on jazz

music is a narrow
word. that art
of sound. jazz
is a thin moniker
for black magic:
washing over white
lies like
fallen chains reclaimed
as instruments of spirit
speech. structure re
formed from some
enlightenment
reverting back to dark
drums, remembering.
the freedom of a fetish.
feverish
and spitting fire.

there, the skies
that float. scraped
by buildings. the rain
trumpets some
melancholy. a
dampness in dark halls.
precise. airless
and sinking, you,
pulled inward. friction
only in spare number
when it’s a freight train
blowing by.
you shiver.

this is never done. but
now. it screams
to a boil. echoes
multiply. a simmer.
and magic tricks
you into understanding.
this always was.