Jazz

for Ken Burns

fuck it if that's what it is or you made it that. the light in the sound was a black light animal. this light is all about the pussy. thank you that it's all about how I grined up in that cunt, joe, and you get lost in there. thank you, jesus, for the criminal burn of the cold idea, fuck it up with every unwed mother, motherfucker, keep fucking, keep fucking up the music. in the tradition of great black queens, pops, cecil, joey ramone, joe simmons of the outside of the new joint, pirates and shmoov sailors, the ones that get took, the ones that got left,

mama, and that last broke set and held hand, can't keep no jones, broke jams and blocked out left out left left hand shit flying in the window blowing up austere creases, tape folded over them, the victory of a docked-up tavern exploding over them, the out inside flowing over them like negro peg, three black deuces and five spots, in the basement, even the anarchists! what you mean by elegant? them heads blew up at hughson's, harmonique strain cold axial, that dance monk almost fell, fuck it if it's daniel bell