Epistola III: Soul Wanderings

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The trumpeter brazenly flashes the tarnished brass, While Velcro'ed against the red bricks and mortar, Amidst the ivories, taunt skins, and sticks, An invisible man wearing smudged spectacles, Plucks his scarred upright bass amply heard, Above the desultory applause of the allegiant, Bottles of lager and ale are chilled and ready, To mollify the nerves of yellowed white-collars, All slaves to slaves of Wall Street’s vagary, Where the value of freedom is determined by Volvos and portfolios, the shackles of America, Her fingers riffle through her hair in the dimness Woven and ponytailed, draped across her flesh, The candlelight flutters across her African visage, As her elongated triune shadows choreograph, To the jazzmen’s symphony of improvisations, Liken to the autumn moon shadows cast, On the rock gardens below Wetumpka’s bridge, Her effeminate draw is ardently superior, To any barstool debutante on East Boulevard, However, who gives a damn, when all is undone, And, temperance’s curfew has come and gone, Its 10 till midnight, an empty bottle and poet, Are intimately negotiating their next demarche, As a Creole reflection scuds across the sully glass Ailinn’s archetypes pirouette on the dance floor, So an old man sullenly announces, ‘It is finished! .