roger singer | ringside | a curious line


A lathering jab cut the smoky air.
Cigars like diving boards
rattled between stormy lips as the
fighters danced the canvas.

The boxers jazzed their arms,
striking with thuds and slaps
as loosened strings cut
faces into blood.

Ladies with pearls. Diamond ears
and high heels swoon in a
crowded sea of anger; smooth
swan necks welcome the rain
of blood and sweat.
Black and tan raise their voices
to angry spirits.

The men jazz each other with
blowing horns of hate, punching
skins with beats and singing


The circle of music. A muse of language.
Ups in high and low with downs.
The circle complete.
Rounding into jazz.

Straight roads with curves, paintings
without colors, water fountains wet
with voices dividing the air.

Magnolia sounds catch the June bug,
lightening the circle in my chest,
setting afire lights, allowing me to see
the vision of my walk, the curious line,
the pain where I live.

Cigar smoke lifts into fans. Faces
speak as if knowing other faces.
The music cuts, releasing bleeding
sounds. We are one of and part of,
formed within the plans of masters.

Jazz feeds the child.

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