Russell Thorburn
(August 2007 Metro Times)

It isn't always such a cool nude as me
who stands there like my father or an older man
with his chest all graying hair,
eyes bulging from high blood pressure,
who nods to the mirror, the veins in my neck
with their own ideas of what jazz to play,
after pulsing too hard from the long run
in the park. My skintight belly shaking,
my penis keeping time to the beat
of Monk and Coltrane playing in the background.
But blood in my veins wants more mouth,
a trumpet to vibrate in darker shouts.
That mood so blue the rest of my body
will have to take note. Monk plays in jumps
on the piano, the world contained in fingertips
full of tree root knuckles and lightning bolts.
But reality isn't always a rainstorm,
or a man facing cool death in the key
of B flat, after running home
through the rain, his blue eyes peering
deeper at himself, as he waves his tee shirt
at the ghost who smiles sadly back.
Sometimes death wants that slow trumpet,
and as the echo of the bowl
holds it solo, the water disappearing,
I stand there closer to my father than ever,
my underwear on the floor and my pain
balled up into a note, the jumpy piano
matching an aging body muzzled to a heart.

shaped like a wave –
blue washes over me whenever she is near.

I feel her lightly against by skin,
her caress – my faithful friend.

I bathe in her sweetness,
soak up her azure brilliance.

adorn myself with her striking, bold splashes of happiness –
smoky darkness, palest silk, vivid cobalt.

wear her in my hair – a glorious halo,
circling my wrist – a secret charm.

always – I seek her,
find her in the open sky, under my feet, in the aqua sea.

I am soothed by her melodic laugh,
delicate touch.

she reaches into my anguish – the turmoil of my dreams –
lends comfort.

when she draws near and lingers,
I feel like dancing.


Stephanie A. McCarty
2007