Sixth Street Station

This jazz

is frantic.

Not for any reason,

Loud, squawking, baratoning, atoning,

twinkle tweaking,

guttural resonating- but not resigning-

certainly not

This jazz

said my poetry is real jazz

It's didactic

Poets are obsessed.

I told you

I'm frantic

in this smut punk subterranean Bohemia

where words did howl-

an echo

led by Beats in Berkeley in New York,

and on and on into the city lights

of this saxophone, sounds like a traffic accident

and I wonder if it would talk to the train

this horn to it's horn traveling through

time- away too long

but

still coming- my fingers on it’s lips

And in it’s mouth

quiet, confessing,

waiting, wanting,

this is why I have been writing.

But

Lyn Hejinian and I both agree

it doesn't matter.