March 16, 2024A Lover, Rejected, Rejects the Myth That Is Billie Holiday
knows she was an uncommon arroyo who understood
that blue on the quintile is a withering thing;
knows Billie lived in an upended Vermont and was
not unlike a nova or a seed in a scalawag’s belly;
figures that La Gardenia’s mistake was believing that
autumn in New York would make a satisfactory break
and that junk was the best horse she never saddled.
But I have learned to beware the tonsils of swivelhipped
conquerors whose lanolin cannot absorb
loneliness. I have gotten lost in the politics of
undressed mud and am no longer obliged to lie down
with fat cats. When I am too scared to dream,
I, my own bald-faced tympani, admonish my dismal pen
to publish the music that will alarm my arrogant judges.
from #22 - Winter 2004