Jazz and the Money Jungle


The same thing happens everywhere
Money Jungle is perfect, of the skin, maybe the pulse
On the night no one talks about
A day before New Years, in Panama City

Crooked toe cranes light the canal
Where the mountains mumble down to
Lows talk to the stomping mallets vicious kiss of the strings in the wood, on the 
black, spit the music around the air
         How don't they laugh at beauty
             When it happens so madly?

           Switch Blade, What happened after they fade on Charles?

We may be document obsessed 
But this was one worth holding onto
Give it to our great grandchildren's nephews
When they are on their way to the stars
Remember, people spoke the notes, from the heart to the head to the fingers, 
out the miracle

Ah jazz, why did they put you in the schools?
And murder you with the desperate cursive of intellect

                    !They saw the money! 

Everyone sees the money. 
It is the end of despair, the money. 
Or at least something to talk about in the vacant spirit of vanity.
                     Not for you, not for you. For the never belongers. 
The money run. Right, Money Jungle. Duke. Desperate everywhere, going where. 
           I live in this song, covered by its cymbals when the hurricanes come.

        The jazz makers stay 
                          still in their naked pursuit of the illusionless. 

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