Eclectic Afterglow

Listen— acid jazz sluices so avant garde
that the melodies gel and overlap
abroad the babbling Babel boulevard
and neath the cymbal-crashing thunderclap.
Thunder rolls on the downpour and downbeat,
ambient dance-trance Rickrolling raindrops,
splashing puddles and fast Scat-shuffling feet,
umbrella-popping drizzle Doo-wop bops.
Stiletto metronome-dome staccato,
epileptic city edged in glowsticks
and craving some raves on the downtown row
atop lunar roof-ledge isometrics.
Hear the horn-blast traffic jam sax solo
in a sfumato-plumed cigarette haze?
A dashboard chiaroscuro ghost-glow
mingles amongst the greenlight-redlight craze.
Rack-stacked skyscrapers with wine-glass facades
and windshield shotglasses of crystal light,
warbling cop sirens peal through pedal mods,
fierce fluttering flamenco through the night.
Wakeful chords strike athwart drowsy vigils,
sidewalk insomnia and groggy grooves,
bleary shopping windows, neon sigils,
and pothole hip-hop polyrhythmic moves.
Riverside jive and the torrential croon,
piano patter-splatter as clouds clear
and the club-hopping, buzz-happy new moon
welcomes in the hectic-eclectic year.
Now hear the windshield wiper DJ scratch
as the storm-drain reverb drones on and on—
see the horizon flare like a lit match
to start the mosh-pit of a punk-rock dawn.

Terminal Illness

Sometimes I miss the schizophrenic skyline
with its scintillating, insomniac lights;
I miss pretending the scatterbrained city is mine
with all of its vertiginous depths and heights.
But I am populated enough, on my own,
to not need the chaotic, churning crowd
where personal space is only ever on loan
while the claustrophobic air gasps aloud.
The traffic is bumper-to-bumper neurotic,
thoughts rushing through an over-scheduled brain
and each neuron is stressed as you hear your clock tic
while you try to catch the earliest subway train.
In the city you are always running late
and never have a chance to breathe in between
one terminal and another— the city simply will not wait,
like the White Rabbit racing toward the Queen.
I would rather stand from afar, in the dark countryside,
and look at the lights from that sleepy distance,
calming the White Rabbit while the hours abide
to let him regain his breath, and his sense.