A few frozen pleasantries to begin--
then some roots cultivated in reverse,
starting with tendrils down deep,
ending where taproot meets trunk-tree.
Posterity. What do you mean? I told you
I might call. I told you in the Fall!
All I had was a pair of deuces. (This is
one of those stories.) Next thing
nobody knows, I'm on top of a brass casino,
which I own, watching hawks glisten as
they glide. Now everyone's showing up,
all black limos and white surfboards;
and robodots and king snakes, the red
and the black. If music isn't from God,
it soon will be. And the filigree.
You just knew we had to get muddy
and moody, and Jesus Muhammad Moses
Mary and the Buddha-man: here come
visions of a visage, Ellington's,
carved in black and tan marble.
Time never stops playing,
so why should he?
hans ostrom 204
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