b.z. niditch | mayakovsky


Still hip
after all these years
of futurist fortunes
to long woodwinds
of improv’s jazz modes
toned and tuned up
marked by your fingers
between half-open hands
which cannot rest
on old baggage
anywhere on the earth
without the beat
of punctured rhythm
breathless shadowing
your acclimation
yet never hanging out long
by your glasses
of hard drinking
filled with kvas and vodka
you cannot remember
being translucent
the unreal day before
provocative yet sensitive
to visit Stravinsky in life
and Proust in death
when Paris’ lemony sun
still radiates on you.

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