the holy city in my dreams

jazz fusions blew my mind last night, man
Monk was walkin black spiders down
eighty-eight west as rain fell in sheets and
blink-blink-blink the vibes lit up
ambulance lights, neon billboards
Walk and Dont walk signs
riffing taxi high-beam’s mixed
with gutter steam, smoke and more
darkness. Curbside pretzel men
armed with mustard singing broken english,
singing third world acappella,
pockets filled with Washington’s,
concrete promise, paper thrill, under
a block of black umbrella’s
shouldering a jelly-roll sky;
sweat streaked, wet with promise
blowing northeast solos
down from Queens between ecstatic

bodies dancing cha cha cosa nostra
on a thirsty barroom floor
almost overcome with heartache;
sidewise victims of
the abstract drizzle, sloe gin fizz.
Tweaking the pulse of pink flamingos

perched on hot house urinal’s
sipping green martinis
with cloak-room dagger pompadour-boys
slathered in Vitalis.
Freak begonias, flowering in subtle  hues
melding and dispersing
switching to another room
whose moodswings coin the ghostly jukebox
pulsing Bobby Darin crooning
bout Miss Lotta Lenya, Lucy Brown
while peeping out a fat amoire
low and behold, it’s Coltrain’s coat,
Bird’s be-bop knot-hole eyes, Billies
haunting childs voice, Sinatra’s
gray fedora, Evan’s off-key
Peace-Piece…night’s thick perfume
mingling each essence into a sound
that will not stand still…remain like a
parrot clawed to a saw-buck perch
squawking mumbled crackers to the idiots
trashed outside its iron hut, gilded cage
while I dream on gone on gone
as they are too now
every place
except

the holy city in my dreams.