No one knows more about the music I am into than I. Heavy bees,
Listening, and the

Stupefied copper of color
Can all just thrust their humid

And mobilized buzz into the aching amber hammock of my
Heart. Please: I have the wings of an escalator on. I am a rising man. When

God wakes, rubbing out of his snooze on the thirtyninth afternoon
The rain is raining. The rain is raining hard. I get up. I get on down. Another

Day my own sharp body, electric
With jazz in guitar stores, stops.

Every note I deliver disengaged from its chord
Hovers, soaked, in its honey ochre over

The salted city, and sails the musical, flat sea of myself.
This beautiful mess of mainline I’ve made is mine.

Hell, I can’t believe it. He saved me for Himself. Is it time?