Working over Birk’s Works and other tunes my saxophonist admires—
Cheesecake, Blackbird—for the theoretical, applied mathematics
inside an abstract, audial harmonization of the Big Bang and The Fall.

The derivative reveals the ***** of the tangent along the curve of
       spacetime.
Follow that rope back and forth from the known to the unknown, your
      mountain to their shore,
an umbilical cord between cities and stories, history and hope, divinity
       and mortality

                        *                        *    ­                    *

I never had anything wise or gentle to say to my parents.
About bladder function. They got the same treatment as every other
       soldier.
Which systems shut down first and how. The mail keeps coming even
      after you’ve stopped barking.

Man made the town. Tough it out, laugh about it. Take it out
on your spouse and sons. Democracy corrects itself through
constant criticism, neurotic carping, daily life as low intensity warfare.
      That’s how we show we care.

                        *                        *        ­                *

Will my letter to the editor be in the funny pages?
Will I even be able to read it?
Did I send it to the wrong address? I’ve seen my death face and it’s not
      pretty.

Maybe I can watch your varsity games from a viewfinder in the afterlife.
If I don’t finish The Iliad, maybe there’s a library there.
Maybe. Maybe is a long, long time.

                        *                        *        ­                *

Homer tries several ways to explain the slaughter:
by describing how a spear pierces a warrior’s jawbone or armor,
how Achilles’ and Agamemnon’s hissy fits contribute to the pain of being
      a soldier

and how the gods, esp. Zeus, are passionate, confused, obtuse.
A callow youth even as a man, he was afraid and therefore could not
      comfort or help.
Perhaps he has a question he’d like to ask but isn’t sure what it is or how
      to ask it.

                        *                        *          ­              *

Would you rather have the fever break or something great happen to
      you?
Count your hocus pocus blessings or never **** broken glass again.
Look one way, from another come the heart's missed beats.

Can I call you back? We're trying to get my truck out of the mud.
Who does he think he is, Nelson Mandela?
Lieutenant, this corpse will not stop burning!

                        *                        *     ­                   *

The hero loses urinary control.
The virtuoso loses interest in her bow.
The expert neglects to do the research.

How do cancer cells and bacteria cooperate to ****
the host (you)? The way yr mum & pop
******* up. It’s fate and it’s not your fault.

art can be audial and visual, y'know
(is audial a word?)

art can be the triangular flap! of a butterfly’s wings
or the circular, roving buzZzz of a mosquito

art can be simple, art can be sleek
art can be loud when life is bleak

art can rhyme sometimes
but it doesn’t have to

art can be time and time can be space and space and time can be anything

anything you want

art can be anything you want

At the reluctant transition of the daystar
Where lantern flies tote the account of murk admitting through Oak quarter
The colored palette of Dusk swallowed by the curve of the Earth
Umber tree line , audial aberrations , the fervor of burgeoning , multitudinous songs before ebony companion Venus
Dove coo , Katydid trill , Mosquito hum trios
Bobwhite Quail give thanks to the dying day , as
reverberating odes do carry from blackened palmettos* ...

sometimes I want to scream,
to open my throat and let raw, audial emotion pour out of my mouth

in unlikely and inappropriate places:

I want to be louder than the grate of iron against iron on the metro,
than the sharp whine of subway against tracks
than the hum of electricity
and the noise that makes up this city
and the noise that makes up the world.
I want to be louder than the noises that reverberate from other people's lives,
and louder than bureaucracy,
and louder than the din of policies and senseless complaints.

but then I think about the summer lockdown,
the humidity of western Tennessee,
the chorus of cicadas in the forests,
devoid of human noise and interaction.

I think about the luna moth I found on my doorstep one morning,
Sheltered from sun, cicada, and wasp.
They stand for luck, you know, and all good fortune.

They don't have mouths.