the puzzle poem

i am in some sad trumpet call. i thought
miles davis was dead!? never mind,
he must be immortal.
after all, it is an ethic i cope with,
being in pieces the way i do.
something like a piano
from some picasso puzzle.
slowly from night
til still mornings.
i live for these feelings.
die because of them too.

it can be this way.
musing. like it really is
some chic thing, because
french is a pretty language.
at least latin is dead.
i digress.
that may be latin too.

certainly it was made this way.
i tried sleeping it off
and then the century turned on me.
you don't really understand,
only because the places i have been
are not like the ones you have here.
you are here, aren't you?

i think maybe you can't know. who i am
is a mystery even to me. do you
shiver when trane speaks? french is pretty,
but jazz is deadly. i mean,
what i mean is, what it means.
empty spaces, we approach,
i touch voids, you find silence,
we still don't meet in between.
flutes carry the meaning we inhabit.

after all, i cope with these things. what
about you?

tell me if this helps.