Quillan

Epistola Iii: Soul Wanderings Quillan

The trumpeter brazenly flashes the tarnished brassWhile Velcro'ed against the red bricks and mortarAmidst the ivories, taunt skins, and sticksAn invisible man wearing smudged spectaclesPlucks his scarred upright bass amply heardAbove the desultory applause of the allegiantBottles of lager and ale are chilled and readyTo mollify the nerves of yellowed white-collarsAll slaves to slaves of Wall Street's vagaryWhere the value of freedom is determined byVolvos and portfolios, the shackles of AmericaHer fingers riffle through her hair in the dimnessWoven and ponytailed, draped across her fleshThe candlelight flutters across her African visageAs her elongated triune shadows choreographTo the jazzmen's symphony of improvisationsLiken to the autumn moon shadows castOn the rock gardens below Wetumpka's bridgeHer effeminate draw is ardently superiorTo any barstool debutante on East BoulevardHowever, who gives a damn, when all is undoneAnd, temperance's curfew has come and goneIts 10 till midnight, an empty bottle and poetAre intimately negotiating their next demarcheAs a Creole reflection scuds across the sully glassAilinn's archetypes pirouette on the dance floorSo an old man sullenly announces, "It is finished!"