If I lived a thousand lives
with you,
I still wouldn’t have enough.
I would still ask for more—
more of you,
more of your passion,
more of your jazz,
and my pasta
you do so well.
Well,
nothing seems definitive,
nothing beguiles me
more than the rhythm
and beats
we share over
a glass of Pinot
and the unrecorded vinyl.
Vanilla perfume
and the New Orleans clubs—
no human is restored
from the disdain
my brothers stretch
over gully phrases.
Where the saxophonist
who raised me got her fringe,
and her never-ending endings,
and longings,
and belongings—
only the strong survive.
Where have we gone
with the tones
no one recorded,
and the lights
no nights
can overshadow,
and the stream
no dream
can portray,
and the greedy green
waves of tranquility.
What happened?
Three twenty-seven
is the perfect time
for jazz and depression,
jazz and repression,
verbal oppression,
and the starvation
of the posse nation.
If I had a thousand lives
to live with you,
it would never
be enough.
I would always
crave more.