Fast Poem: #17 – A Failed Explanation of Virtuosity

Fast Poem: #17 – A Failed Explanation of Virtuosity to a Charming Smile Who Thought Miles Davis Was “I dunno. Maybe like a runner, you know like in the Olympics?”

Tight
as trumpet and bass connected in ethereal dance,
tracing golden acrobatic progressions,
carefully measured patterns
inside time,
outside reason,
ringing cool against pedestrian mumble jumble,
maintaining North Beach beat,
softly caressing delicate flames
of necessary one o’clock flirtation.

Tight
as the night she left eight Olympian sisters,
caught a cab to the Nikko Hotel,
walked into the celebrating private corporate room,
and blinded controlled cocktail conversations
with her almost smile,
every curve she thought to bring
candidly expressed in tight, blue silk.
Mouths, over-educated – under-informed
pursed in bewilderment.

Framed by mahogany door,
looking West;
looking East;
scanning with hungry eyes the banal crowd
among one hundred success driven, scotch inflamed eyes,
each wishing “Me. Me. Me.”
hers met his,
smiled,
and beckoned.

Tight
as polished steel inhaling
souls of fallen angels,
upstroke compressing cosmic collapse,
perfectly timed spark
inciting the wrath of hell,
dissipating demon screams into mundane technology.
Push-rod linear poetry
translated invokes sacred science cycles,
drive train complexities
transmute internal combustion commotion,
distill rushing, wind buffeting momentous motion.
Rubber side down and three AM asphalt
lock in gyroscopic hissing kiss;
sum of the parts accelerate with mortal argument
along the serpentine spine of Pacific Coast Highway One.
A rider,
without name,
unaware of other,
selfless in enlightenment
of motorcycle satori,
enrapt of the inorganic industrial beast,
absorbed by joy with each moment’s catching breath,
observes significance in insignificance
beneath blue-black star-sequined sky.
To the West patient Pacific surges to rhythms of planet and moon,
sips special reserve blended sand aged for twenty-five thousand years
on secret Rosicrucian beaches.

Tight
as an ancient puzzle wrapped with arcane cloth,
bound by linen ribbons intricately tied by Gordian hands.
Complex memories of Alexandrian impatience
validate dogma tightened knots
artificially restraining an ardent ache to open wide.
Hints disguised as sighs guide slow hands,
answers hidden in looking glass algebra
suggest byzantine barriers,
blind faith conflicts;
self denial.
Sudden explosions of sunlight,
contractions of shadow,
illuminate concealed Nature;
carnal intonation asking infinite questions.
Promises of Spring romance lead to
Summer sin
to Autumn blush
to the edge of the white abyss.
Perhaps beyond.

Tight
As God’s spinning toy
skittering into nothingness
etching spirals of slippery mystery
on the surface of this dream
we call Universe.
© 2008 Chrome Poet


  • http://xanga.com/sharkey Sharkey!

    I could never create something this good. You make some great skittering toys yourself.

© 2008-2012 Chromia Poetics