You don’t listen to jazz because
It is neither pedestrian nor broccoli.
“Who’s Mahatma Gandhi?” asks a man
Who had somehow gone through twenty
Years without learning a thing or
Two in history but swears that
A wild boar’s penis does wonders
To an underachieving male such as
He. Incredibly smart about rap culture,
It should not be too much
Of me to ask, I think,
For a gentler spin, something parochial,
And not based upon a horoscope
Page. We are stir-fried characters
With illustrative details enough to choke
On our patron saint’s banquet. If
You are ever going to love
Me, I might even see your good
Side and finally see in you
Something they say there is not.
Do you think, just possibly, we
Could use a few more moments
Of this light? I see you
Nod indulgently. Tomorrow, it might be
That you’ll find yourself listening to
Jazz with me and that’ll be
A different story.
