mmmccxxxv

How Do Wop w/o
a Wah-Wah Myoot

the grace the
plungers that
open and shut
the snout of
our dear trum-
pets forlorn
french horns
the ting-ting
of our triangle’s
mustachioed
maraca mar-
imba and it’s
jazz as it is
and it’s jazz
as it does
the tiny joke
that hurts like
a hangnail as
clocks big as
ben strike at
twelve, and
look over there
that’s our sado-
masochistic
flageolet flag-
ellating the tuba
bullies into bones
the baritones make
flutes out of our whatever
wartime rumbles give birth
to all seventy-six trombones
just before swallowing an
alto sax, the bigger the
sax the more bongo the
boing-boings ... and like 

a bagpipe gone stuck in 
one of the biggest and

baddest organ pipes, the

ones you’d see way up

high in the sky of the 

biggest most gigantic-est

cathedrals, the ones that
go boom so big that the
organist dares themself
not to avoid (and, to boot,
booming tubes whose 

death throes throw
big rats into shock,
the ruckus erupting

most days and most

nights what’d be their

otherwise silent as

mice’s home sweet 

homes so; those poor
rats can’t never not

ever even rid them 

selves of the shakes) 

cuz when down goes 

his foot over that big

honkin’ pedal, out

comes a roar that’d
awaken the devil 

such and so that 

in the end that

scrawny afore

mentioned

bagpipe moans

naught but an

inaudible squawk,

merely a hiccough, so 

that one’s present mind

or a mind somewhat present

might find itself wand’ring

its way ’round to midnight,

where one might in certain

pastures, say, get lost

in the squeaks of creaky 

gates and cowbells

bingle-bongling a bit, 

but, oh, it is not back to the

crickets just yet,

thanks to the 

lead-footed

organist

{sigh}

if after this any

one of us is left

with a workable 

ear, then i hear 

the dance-club

a block or two 

down is still

around and

might even

be open.