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Zen Sunday Blues

by Michael D. Amitin

4 a.m. snow blowing like a red-hot dixieland band
swirling curling before the bulbous cop helmet
streetlight hanging mid-air on the postal wall

clarinet rising trumpets hooting
angels of the forgotten night
dancing the sullen decks of the heat street boulevard
in their ragged half-time boots

sailor shaking the biting frost
his dragon ship juice burning a hole in the neon blue
wind drops Shanghai Paris beauté door swings open

flicking dead ice moons
I smoulder like a hot bubble atop red neon stew
four floors up and out of this world
watching the swirl

Roma kids hiding out for a daybreak hit
gotta please them shady cat bosses their violin grins
upright man says what gives
gets a big size bite
and the howl goes up

Cervantes said Gypsies were born to be thieves
tonight I’d light a street fire bright
for a carol a dream a saraband flight

yet a sad trombone rides the pre-dawn wind
I sit 4 a.m. same hour I got your message said call me
and I knew we were fresh outta luck
that cutlass call piercing my guts

fate sliced a mean sleight of hand
you weren’t supposed to go dick dead-eye
last soul of my family fleet taken down in the devil mean seas

wasn’t an easy ride you and I
but it got better as we stood side by side
facing the remains in the graveyard rains

4 a.m. breathless blue light orphan
staring out at a wasted distant shore
snowbaked dixie orchestra new year’s packed and gone
parlez-moi d’amour tinkling piano
under the nomad twinkling stars

Copyright © 2013 by Michael D. Amitin

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