There’s a kind of poetry
that sounds like jazz
dropping beats on you
as you read, but I don’t have
that kind of rhythm
and I never quite
find the flow
of staccato, pause,
repeat, and crescendo.

I don’t even have the
anarchic cacophony
required for free jazz,
random sounds
on raptor wings
swooping to make sure
your ears have noticed.

But the words find their
way in a unique
improvisation each
time we speak in
a veritable word jazz.

Ken Nordine knew.

And the words blew blue
all the way back to you.