Jazz is an imperfect metaphor.

its your African father looking

backwards into himself

kissing everyone he meets,

meta-level luster in

copper, hollered above the

chattering Charlie Brown baseline,

singing a sermon sideways

into the small crevasse

of a closed mind–

it sinks in slanted like Jesus

as he bowed the wood

to which he was nailed–

it is mercy, sweet mercy

from a Georgia farm

where the peaches

have bloomed

and the proof of God

lies on a misunderstood

premise: that the rhythm

of booming hips

is derived

from a rational

number.