by makalani bandele

look for me between the staccato and playback
of lil’ walter on the seabud.
lips thin and surreal
as an orphan’s.
i was born… whorl of white petals
in billie holiday’s pompadour— fragrance
of honeyed smoke
like her voice, clown in all blue
drying out in a coldwater flat.
Autumn in New York
is an anodyne (for the upper right
third molar rotting in my head).
i can’t feel my hands
for the winter coat of fur
i’ve grown in these last few days growing
shorter. my hands know the light is old and weakening.
they know not being able to touch
what i want. they don’t know
that the soul don’t go for that potholes in my lawn
duh duh duh duh da-duh duh duh. i am so foggy
ya can’t see a road, pray st. jude
for traveling grace. i have desire
to talk dirty to the gods while prez digs
love out of a nub of heartbreak.
my ears reach high into the clouds.
when will i ever learn?