Pharaoh's Dance - Miles Davis

The cold grey night transforms

Into a simmering violet evening.

The sounds are mescalito hooch

infused, voodoo ballads, smokehouse tombs.

Neon green stained boiler rooms,

pump turquoise smoke, neural ooze.

It leaks into a ranch style suburban two story,

where the dharma runts:

old children nauseous on poker and opium,

work thrashed velvet table with counterfeit change.

They scream and shatter whiskey tumblers,

spadeless and pin eyed, until the aural elixir

leaves them crippled and crying fried dirt into god.

Me? I receive the postage.

I rip open the gasoline soaked packaging,

remove the bass walks, watermarked bills,

seared white jazz critic skin,

and throw it all in the blender.

Use the liquid as ink.