avant-garde

Have we even gotten rid of all the lawyers yet?
So tell me what to do about these ripe street jazzers,
Shining their bad side; hurt, bruised bluish from a flawing fall -
Down inside after-school fences of the rich
Memories on a bothered Alabama lawn;
Hurled adults through night-dead staid yards are split open
Children when they hit empty:
Cases in some Manhattan alley.
Pungent wailing, tar-tattered pulp yearning for a respectable
Suburban fridge.
Cryogenic rhythms pour the tempest from a teapot;
Complicated saxman playing symbols with his sandals.
My own case opened up for your consideration
In a padded chair I sift through pre-Miami
Vice Miles Davis, muted, for the hours you
Brought here
Once: whispy
Faded chalk words
On a blank school board.



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A.G.’s Home Site: www.gobi-igloo.com

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