I do my best writing
in my sleep,
when rain plays
percussion on rooftops,
a whop bop ting.
Fat pillows
sing sixteen bar solos
in my ears & in my dreams
I know what silence tastes like;
it’s olive oil,
candle wax,
& Lady Day.
Lady Day sounds like chocolate.
God Bless the Poet that hears
screeching tires,
saxophones blaring
serenades to my raw complexion,
almond eyes in a pool of syrup.
Metal collisions
! crash !
the cymbals,
syncopated chaos
between accented bass snores.
Dancers in my head
take to the floor,
roll over on one side
& try to forget
where the music comes from.
Static cling in their faces,
They cackle & stare
at me.
But it’s not me; it’s Cole Porter.
I slid my girl under my pillow
& we dreamed all night,
put the ‘R’ in Renaissance.
Morning wakes me, smiling.
I think, “This ain’t Bourbon Street,”
then forget it all until I see a pen.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Sleepy Solozzz
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