Thunder Sandwich #26 - D. B. Cox poetry

endless river

on his back

stretched thin

across the floor

quiet as a mirror--

irreverent fury

all used-up

turning an old "satch"

solo over in his mind

how many years ago

was it--

"downbeat" claimed

he was ahead of his time

before

all of the fine

young cannibals

feasted on his tone--

carved it & gnawed it

to the bone…

now he smokes

a little gage

& wonders

about destination:

after learning

then forgetting

the weary language

of the jazz night--

was there anything else

to be explained

one more reason

to stay here

in this crumbling house

by this endless river

for sonny

a lone saxophone
bleeds into the wind
the bridge sways
to drums of thunder

pushing him toward
uncharted places
riding the devil's
backbeat

riffing on the dark
harmony of the storm
showing the lightning
where to strike

big, bebop heart
pumping time
as he tracks
here-there-everywhere

searching--
for a sacred sequence
of notes
to save us all

obligation

armed prophets
& maniacs
with perfect excuses
continue to serve up
the fine smell of fear--

roadside attractions
for mass consumption--
heads without bodies
bodies without heads
& enough divine
smoke & ashes
to block the sun--

more pointed clues
in the slow disclosure
of the convoluted master plan

strangers sitting cross-legged
on allah's great damn
stone floor of justice
staring up
from the bottom
of the dark hole of reality
into the imaginary
authority of a camera lens

frantically making
a case for his or her
shitty little life

good citizens

on the verge of making

some hard discoveries
about obligation

outside 42 rosedale

wind shakes the collar

of my blue coat

as i lean against

vinyl-sided walls

in the dark

staring

through my own window

at an obscenely large screen

covered with a million

dancing electrons--i paid for

warm white light

filters through

slightly cracked blinds

projecting an unclimbable

ladder across my dying lawn

i want to reach out

tap on the glass

let them all know

not to wait up for me--

but it's way too late

& i've got to get home

signs

light pours down through
a hole in the clouds
but no "old testament" voice
rings out from the sky

no verbal validation
of anyone's dogmatic position--
(quashing any thoughts
of dancing in the street)

no up-to-the-minute
marching orders
toward shiny new shrines--

no white-suited angels arriving
in solar-powered lincolns
with stained-glass windows--

no beginning of a new story
(the one that should've happened)

no assurances that this crazy thing
was designed with us in mind

then poof--

the light disappears
without leaving so much
as a shadow behind

not even a pathetic
white cloud in the shape
of the virgin mary

but if you shut the fuck up
for a second & stop moving
from place to place
as if you're going somewhere--

if you really listen…
you might hear the sound
of something coming

top of the world

matty killed

his ragging father

with a 1959

Les Paul FlameTop--

he tossed the body

into the back of his band's

equipment trailer

& dragged it down

to the 39th precinct

now he's playing

air guitar

in the day room

of the mental hospital

drugged body

confessin' the blues

as doctors & social workers

look on

confused about what's wrong

manic depressive?

sociopath?

or just another

pissed-off air guitarist--

duck walking--like chuck

stroking, SRV-style

behind the head

behind the back

right-arm windmills

frazzling the air

like the sad man

behind blue eyes

screaming over & over…

hey pop--

look at me now

top of the world

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