—after "Trumpet," Jean-Michel Basquiat
the broken sprawl & crawl
of Basquiat's paints, the thin cleft
of villainous pigments wrapping
each frame like the syntax
in somebody else's relaxed
explanation of lateness: what had
happened was. Below blackened
crowns, below words crossed out
to remind of what is underneath:
potholes, ashy elbows, & breath
that, in the cold, comes out in red light
& complaint shapes— 3 lines
from the horn's mouth
in the habit of tardy remunerations.
All of that 3-triggered agitation,
all that angry-fingered fruition
like Indianapolis's 3-skyscrapered smile
when the sun goes down & even
the colors themselves start talking
in the same suspicious idiom
as a brass instrument—
thin throat like a fist,
flat declinations of pastors
& teachers at Christmas in the inner city.
Shoulders back & heads up when
playing in holiday choir of hungry
paints, chins covered
in red scribbles in all of the songs.
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