Fill one big pot with water.
That's the stage.
Drop in ginger. Licorice. Horns walloping inward
and down into.
Spices. Flavors are coming alive.
Squeezed citrus. Apple slices. The piano to taste.
But one helluva taste that makes it all matter.
String of honey bass plucked drizzled.
Simmer two to three hours with cigar
This is Mingus.
Everything . . . all of it . . . whatever
“it” is . . . simmering
seemingly angrily . . . but a peaceful anger.
Chaos is joyful.
Chaos is wit slowly filling my tiny kitchen.
The window open to it. Still room and time to
Through it. Into it, even if slight.
Gives new meaning to skin, new meaning to
saints and sinners.
These are the notes I'm in.
There I am. Inside his pot.
Ah, Mingus. My dynasty.
And I know what I know.
received his MA in Creative Writing from Wayne State University in Detroit (2003). He writes with an appreciation for the odd things in his brain focusing on Sound, Structure, and Image. His latest book Lookbaby deals with the absurdity and immaturity of how we look at our surroundings. He is a psychiatric nurse, living in Denver and the Bay Area. He likes Jazz, redheads, and sushi.