GROOVE
In a groove when a lone goddess
high-beams her dental-whiteness
and vibrates a cosmic throat chord
like a string of lights across a jump joint,
love and death's gnawing timber moves
unheard, sub-vocalized along the wires.
Neither blood-seed nor flood and fever of beer
holds a guy back from night's awesome pleasures,
cruising his paradise of rock-joints,
looking three-fold weird, a little bit jived,
a couple of soft-lipped babes, one on each arm.
Dancing flower late and dove driven,
night's gush of soul-milk and fly-fury kicks up
infectious molecules of groove moisture,
eddies of mist that fog musicians eyes and noses,
medicate the minds and fingers, eye to hand electric
till the all too soft-lipped Charm, the milkiest one,
the wave-drunken moon-babe, wavering,
falls up in the stage, overcome by saxophone love
as her lime-green neon underwear unexpectedly
peeks out from a slice of her devil-blue dress.
Star fall mama, rising in thigh-vertical air,
real flesh touching in a stretch of symbol dancing,
no groove too thin, too small, or too Milky Way huge
for the all-evening sanctified spirit-bound dance
that hangs in the every-night, up-town whirl of love.
ŠJimmy Warner Design, 2010