roger singer | three poems


A moan turned up through
black pavement, a line unbroken,
Solid and straight, dripping of sweat
With a fluid of change.

Stone softened at the
shedding of blood,
as bones rattled
from graves where change is colored
and ghosts hang loosely from stars
boasting of dreams

A wine, feathered with the body of many
runs splashes
cold the face with words,
fueling engines, releasing fears,
raising voices and hands to a
heaven of jazz
where a black beat
bottoms hard in rivers
and twists like the fire of man
under snakes.

The bell has rung.
The peach basket has tipped.
The air is cracked.


Fingertips tap
to the drummers
beat with
bang and slide
following the
ups and downs
of his rhythm
like cats
scared into
jumping high
as the crowd
waters their
moving cool
under lazy fans
rounding like
spinning moons
while they
dance thick
on sawdust
whispering words
into ears
hungry with
a tall thirst
for want
as the band
sounds the
paint from
the walls
with jazz
boiling hot.


Under the skin, a motor of sound.
Molasses fingertips play dark thick jazz.
Wet soaked dirt roads kick
start the aroma of his thoughts.

Smooth perfumed skin smiles into his lust.
His mile of strong words runs like
a river engine; a power few own.

A wind moves on a sweet green growing
field. His youth, shoeless, fills his
pockets with songs.

He opens the rich burden of giving,
without taking back.

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