Bruce A. Jacobs – Ⅴ

Solo, Death Valley
 

 

 

 

4 hours

with no shade and

at 102 degrees this flatted world

was made for bebop:

dry veins of plants that won’t

take no for an answer,

roots railroading through rock

a thousand years behind

the beat and still

on it,

lizards who

blink back white flame.

 

Listen:

If a scorpion hoisted

its poisonous horn

and blew 4 bars of Cherokee,

I would not drop

my drink, although

I have to say: years ago,

when I heard a piano player

advise a shaky white bassist to

hang out with more black people,

I didn’t know he meant

here.