Aaron Douglas and his Arkestra

I put away a reefer
and strolled into
Cravath Hall
with the full intention
of hurling the cosmos
around
and
around
the humid grounds
with the aide of Sun Ra
aka Master Groover
aka Mad Dog 20/20 Retrospective Vision
aka Most Solar on High, Horse
aka Horus 3000

the sun was shining on my
peachy skin

each layer of the Metro General Hospital
started spinning like a Rubik's Cube

all of the infirm, derelict, and waywardly
gentlemen and ladies
flew from the building as dew from the beard
of Zoroaster

Georgia O'Keefe peeked from behind the
statue of W.E.B. DuBois
and winked (hold the wink for the shape of the
winked eye should be remembered)

a thoussssssssand Sesame Street
moralities moonwalked by this spectacle
of me and GO and WEBD all in time and space
and so out of the zone at the time of this spectacle

and from the project housing across the street,
the clamor of cold toys
in the darkest night of all time
gave me the impression
that at any moment (now)
the elderly men I grew up watching
joke nakedly in the Country Club locker room
will presently walk out of the floral security doors
in lugged Ferragamo loafers,
spiritedly discussing the DTC (DownTown Core)
while
their cuffed pants are swishing this way and that
to the sound of some crazy trumpet blasting
as if
on
diamond paved
golden arches (wiggling and jiggling)
like a symbolic cartoon in the New Yorker magazine

and their sons' pasty legs and Alabama hair
are intent on keeping pace with the finest
SkyMall small talk
on coy Kurdish women
"I understand the burkha despite the competition."

One million sweaty thank yous have fallen to my lobes
and up them like a rolling tongue of some circus
clown who had a stroke in his horse-drawn
clown-quarters

Thirteen pouty cigars
cordon
the blue linen
Tommy
Bahama
jazz shirt with a jazz collar

the 1993 Corvette squeels away
and my darling outlook
is left in a pool of its own
blood on the coroner's doorstep