On and On she wrote with her fingers
out of stars
Blinking lights tracing whatever is left inward
to the night
In New Orleans
where scatting brass screams restless jubilees to the ceiling
and old stories are passed like newborns
THIS and all THAT


The streets tonight are painted with travelers
hobos
forgotten messiahs
endless, oh endless creatures of subdued ecstasy
wandering over railroad tracks, spitting teeth for a bet
They sing toothless memories into the dusty road
gathering seashells of thought from the beaches of time
And stick their thumbs out for another adventure

Two outstretched lovers
lie naked on the roof
picking flowers out of the Jazz covered skies
smelling of rotten garbage and ginger
breathing in a city of unchained passion
who, in tragic irony, must end its passion at the slums
They once called this place Hell.

A jailhouse of brick
where the prisoners of good times roll coal cigarettes
who turned off lights and thought themselves sleeping
and turned them on and thought themselves gods
flicking backhanded canaries at the drunk jockey
who watches his favorite horse turn to numbers
in a magazine

On and on? He asks
On and on. She kisses him, and they paint the sidewalk with civil war and jazz
while the killer slices to the rhythm of the snare
and the skinny trumpeter screams gospel
and the fat lady loses her voice calling the dogs
and the teaspoons rattle in the cupboards
and the deaf pianist listens to the heartbeats of the stricken crowd
Cures cholera with his fingers and bad times with his voice
that he's never heard. Nor ever will.