The trumpeter brazenly flashes the tarnished brass While Velcro'ed against the red bricks and mortar Amidst the ivories, taunt skins, and sticks An invisible man wearing smudged spectacles Plucks his scarred upright bass amply heard Above the desultory applause of the allegiant Bottles of lager and ale are chilled and ready To mollify the nerves of yellowed white-collars All slaves to slaves of Wall Street's vagary Where the value of freedom is determined by Volvos and portfolios, the shackles of America Her fingers riffle through her hair in the dimness Woven and ponytailed, draped across her flesh The candlelight flutters across her African visage As her elongated triune shadows choreograph To the jazzmen's symphony of improvisations Liken to the autumn moon shadows cast On the rock gardens below Wetumpka's bridge Her effeminate draw is ardently superior To any barstool debutante on East Boulevard However, who gives a damn, when all is undone And, temperance's curfew has come and gone Its 10 till midnight, an empty bottle and poet Are intimately negotiating their next demarche As a Creole reflection scuds across the sully glass Ailinn's archetypes pirouette on the dance floor So an old man sullenly announces, 'It is finished "" | Epistola III by Quillan, Hardcover | Indigo Chapters