Ellington Jameson Jenkins

Tight eyed in low light

the room bops the disc spins

the corners curl upward on parted lips

loose-necked the head swims

one hand, one wrist and one forearm held

at the height of the lowest true rib

you could trace a line from the elbow

to the middle finger tip

and call it

the only straight thing in the room

and everything's in shades of woodgrain

and you could scream from the pit of your lungs

but no cry of ill or of passion

can slide past the piano, the brass, the bass, the drums

and I'd only burble a reply if it did so tight eyed in low light

the body bops in ever decreasing circles and the trumpet warbles

'til the sunrise sends me to sleep.

Junkbox: Performing Poetry Workshop (Sept 16th 2010)

I... that is, me, see,

I feel the...

I feel the express need

To tell you, you

To tell you all about me, me

All be it, cryptically.

See, I...

It, it gives me great pleasure,

To confess, yes, pleasure,

To confess how much I enjoy tea,

Sexually, yes, tea.

I taunt it.

See, it...

It likes to be stirred

Yes it does, it does

It likes to be stirred till it's done

By plastic stick or by spoon or asbestos thumb

Yes it likes to be stirred till it's ready to come

to your lips and be held on the tounge.

So I don't. No, no I don't.

I dip. Yes, I dip.

Just the tip,

Just the tip so the milk doesn't mix

So the milk get's to split, get's to splinter and spread

Till I go in again, first the tip, then more,

The all the way in,

Spelling my name with broad strokes

The alphabet trick at work.