more haibun for harryette

polyrhythms tricked out. oops i tripped on your post-soul era train. keep on moving don't stop, no. will the real mix master please stand up? tip your cups to your live hommies. cause, it ain't only bout the benjamins babies. the poet craves a menajetua. all up in some libraries, and stacks of dusty coletrane lps. and searching the ghost tracks of the orisha. can the drummer get wicked?

and as she licks beneath disjointed hips. search her eyes' search and go. mediterranean lungs kick out curry, walk the boulevard home. walk the boulevard home. like skin that promenades towards oeuvre. boom, bap. boom bap.

water is a beginning
fire an intermediary
air an unkown variable
and we are all chosen to nose-dive in no particular order