supernatural fire

dim lights float
in cigarette smoke
a saxophone cuts
through the haze

like lightning
at sundown
screaming "fuck you"
to the sky

notes stumble chromatically
into impossible places
then somehow
slip out gracefully

a bebop poet
gone a little mad --
machine greased
with drugs & whiskey

to dull the edge
of feeling too much --
balanced on a ledge,
a terminal tightrope walker

lighting this murky space
with a supernatural fire
that burns for awhile
then goes cold

conjuring a vertigo
of living color
out of this black hole
of 3 a.m. sorrow


© Donnie B. Cox