Extended Jazz Poem – Jon

Lock me out for three hours

on the front porch in boxers

and slant eyed, I never knew you could

dance like a fallen saint or skip rocks

across spiritual pools of rainwater and fallen leaves

of tincans and twine.

It might as well have been three days

because

you’d just as soon break down the door

and send splinters and nails flying

so I’ll sit on the front porch and watch the sunset

behind the frozen trees and brown grass

turn to the dark purple glow of small towns at night.

Kicking around cans and paper cups and trashbagscraps

and spent blunt tips of desperate bearded wanderers

you can hear the jazz of midnight.

Serving up “Fuck Bush” tshirts on a street corner

and receding into a toothless dry haired epilepsy of loose change

pilfering and back alley masturbation, of food scrap finding,

you can hear the absent ramblings of DC nothings.

There’s shadows in the metro stations.

The reflecting pool says god isn’t real,

just staring at Abe, he’s bent on the water’s surface

in the biled rheumy electric street light reflection of 2 a.m.

There’s the cinders of burnt bridges in

the cigarette butts

tossed like paper cups or crippled

orangefireflies ,

falling

from the highway overpasses.

And landing, extinguishing with a faint sizzle

in the spilt oil and rainwater of urban downpours.

There’s a plastic sunflower in

the steely green trashcans of rusted

chainfence industry.

Oil like a Technicolor fanfare of pollution

licks the grease off blacktop.

Scaffolding and incense stubs

english streetsigns fade likes stars in an urban

evening

to parks where chinese kids play alone

theres greeks in chinatown too,

I’ve seen them wander through fishmarkets

and gag on unseen smells.

We sat and threw trash out the 23^rd floor, it didn’t hit anyone.

He likes the west and crumbles catholic shrines

film photography and rum

He would like a front porch

and a greenhouse, but is fine with mowing the lawn instead.

He likes abstract art and big cars and walking.

There’s pawn shop heroes of

battered guitars and cloudy diamonds and

eternal 5 o’ clock shadow, of cigar store character and

pool hall small talk.

Someone used to grow sunflowers in this lot,

until they faded like the ink in our church hymnals, and got stuck like gum

underneath pews. Were a desperate cult bent on forever.

What does it matter though, with sunflowers.

~ by jhartsblog on April 9, 2008.