E.S.P.

I’m just a
Patternform contortion
Six pennies in a jar
Plus an expired bus pass
Won’t get me real far
So I
Two step my way
To the sounds of red clay
Head nodding haywire
Cuz I’m feelin it today
Motherfuckers all like
“that cat was cool till he started in with all that jazz”
never knowing my ancient Walkman
adds years of hip to my waistbelt
They can’t fuck with my E. S. P.
I walk aloof to commentary
the hihat carries my conversation
fat tones
sax moans
trombonal tirades against silence
the alpha to b-boy rotations
and it’s all coming back now
stolen moments from the lexicon of life
squeezed into the spaces between 2 and 4
I’ve got abstract truths and the shape of jazz to come
Packed neatly into 12” sleeves
Only to be resurrected
Courtesy of a weighted tone-arm
The needle crackles
And the wisdom of the ages
Echoes into the now