“…a lover,/ in no particular hurry,
the music reveals itself
a negligee black note at a time.”
   from poem For Duke Ellington by Reuben Jackson

Sunday afternoon and the jazz angel cometh
tap-dancing philosophies of the drum-roll
over a bebop-stay-cool bridge of silver wings.

As history bleeds its forbidden light,
thunder-heavy tears drip flavored adagios,
splash and explode, into champagne solos.

The sacred mystery of improvisation
is hatred’s final aesthetic reconciliation…
to the fact of love, shining forever, supreme.

Your skin is human-hued and tiger-striped.
Your software likes the contradiction.
At the edge of madness you howl diamonds and pearls.

Broken-hearted volcanoes sob your rhythms
as midnight flowers blossom your blues and
between their fingers, prophets snap lightning, to the beat.

In the center of time’s thorny labyrinth there you are––
naked you swallow quasars and spit raw genius,
cook your poems fresh, make music, make sense, make life.

by Aberjhani
(from The River of Winged Dreams)