Festival of sound
T. Anders Carson
Delhi is afire
with jazz after
dark.
The heat surges in
waves
over notes of
primal teetering
of foreign mayhem.
The beat skips in
rhythms
of moons dancing
with comets.
It is bass players
harmonic
hum that is
purring his vibrations
to the stunned
crowd.
Starved for real
jazz.
Starved for a cold
drink.
They dribble sweat
drops in
their lonely
drinks as
apocalyptic surges
streak
through their
strenuous struggling
bodies.
The drum’s seismic
surges urges the
soul to differentiate
the clouds.
The twinkling of
hazy eyes
the smoke twiddles
in the circulating air.
It is filled with
cathartic screams
of human bondage
set free.
The rescued folk
sit quietly.
Suddenly.
Their little toe
tappity taps in unison
with the bass.
Their lower calves
rippity rip through their
polyester straps.
Their tiny fingers
snappity snapping to the
joyful rappity rap
of the drums.