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  • 1.
    .
    Jazz
    of insane
    dead men swarms
    through my window
    with the same bite and sting
    as a hellbent insect,
    angry-crazy-moody saxophone
    like trouble wrapped in velvet
    on a rooftop
    having no fear of gravity,
    no regard for tomorrow
    nor any concern about yesterday
    and
    the lingering legends sewn
    in its memory,
    playing bloodsucking stuff
    in the hopeless face
    of a world stuck on empty
    and out of answers,
    playing through another lonely night,
    trying like hell to fill one more crack
    in a shattered life that's lost and gone,
    adrift without anchor.
    .
    yet
    this music
    is a monster
    with a reed in its mouth
    no less than two blocks away,
    and
    the monster keeps biting
    with his lips like steel,
    squeezing until blowing
    absolute brilliance.
    no doubt a star
    in a dog constellation
    and demonic,
    the dark unknown,
    and most likely it won't change a thing
    tonight
    or by the time tomorrow arrives.
    .
    2.
    .
    while
    down below,
    not far away
    along street level,
    the cops sweep desolation,
    their flashlights cutting through
    the industrial haze in back alleys,
    the blur of humidity hanging
    like dirty wet blankets in the air.
    throughout the perimeter,
    all the way into the railyard,
    they're searching for likeness,
    for descriptions and leads,
    a fugitive
    armed and dangerous,
    long missing
    but
    now believed
    somewhere in the area.
    .
    3.
    .
    half
    a block
    to the west,
    the hookers line up after 10pm,
    another dusty mardi gras parade
    for both saints and sinners
    who choose damnation
    as a shortcut to paradise,
    the fleeting pleasures
    in place of lasting joy.
    but man,
    they're all so gorgeous,
    they're all available,
    they're all guys in heels-in drag
    and
    various trans-sex stages.
    boys with big breasts,
    chicks with dicks,
    picture perfect creatures
    of the wayward night
    and the gameful imagination,
    standing numb
    under the sodium glow of streetlights
    and so reasonable,
    ever ready at discounted economy,
    a kiss and a quick fix
    for a low price,
    there but for the asking
    for both factory workers
    and factory owners alike.
    the American Homefront,
    drive-thru sex,
    walking on the wild side,
    Seventh Street
    and Santa Fe.
    .
    Big Yolanda
    bolts forward
    and smiles like an angel
    in five inch red stilettos.
    she speaks good English while on her feet,
    but perfect Spanish on her knees.
    more importantly,
    she's impeccable at speaking
    the tongue of love
    in a backseat by a busted curb
    parked in the shadows
    of a dark street.
    .
    4.
    .
    a couple
    of dogs broken loose
    from a junkyard nearby
    freely roam the adventure,
    every so often urinating
    on the walls and storefronts
    of derelict architecture,
    on phone poles,
    on any number of homeless
    too tired to stay awake
    or too weak to react
    and leap through
    another evening's ordeal.
    .
    tires squeal,
    gunshots ring out,
    weeds grow in the midst
    of decaying rags and used condoms,
    trashed auto parts and plastic wrap.
    someone tags another wall:
    a cryptic message missing letters;
    more bad Spanish.
    .
    the
    coroner
    removes another body,
    this time from beneath
    the Seventh Street Bridge,
    and
    as luck would have it,
    murder is ruled out.
    .
    5.
    .
    one
    more mosquito
    gets smashed against
    the salty taste of my sweaty arm.
    my unemployment check will eventually arrive
    probably two or three days late:
    the karma
    of being a human insect.
    but
    the landlord's in Vegas
    for the holiday weekend
    and
    the creditors can't call a phone
    that's been disconnected.
    .
    it's
    near midnight
    and that saxophone
    just keeps blowing like guts on fire,
    like a gentle dirge
    about death of proud beauty,
    like the soft warm whistling
    of friendly breezes
    blowing through the sway of palm trees,
    music so damn right and perfect
    that you just know
    there's no wrong.
    .
    it's
    78 degrees
    with skies so clear
    you can almost see the gates of heaven.
    .
    what
    the hell more
    can anyone ask for?
    .
    .
    ~~~~~~~~
    .
    .
    ©2015 Miles Ciletti

    Music by Tim Eilers
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