Invisible Music

It is who I am — a protean Piscean dreamer
By night & day blessed with the inventions
& dimensions of unconventional wit
& spontaneity transmitting live from the right
Brain which in no way explains my love
For numbers — to get intoxicated
On pure imagination & the electric music
Of the muses as though I were the Charlie
Parker of poetry, an ad liberated
Auralchemystic wordwright flying high
On a Mileslike solo that always plays
“What’s not there,” with sun-drenched
Soul (& sensuality) that makes me wanna sing
Like Billie, Etta, Aretha & Whitney, without
Riding that wretched horse or beaming up to Scotty.

It is who I am — afrofuturistic like Sun Ra
& his Myth Science Arkestra or the
Mothership Connection representing citizens
Of the universe, or avant guardian
Like the eighty-eight fine-tuned drums that
Explode from Cecil Taylor’s fingers — to linger
In alter echoes enclaved in the labyrinth
Life of my(mutably unmuted)self framed
In a motley montage of invisible music scribed
On the staff of my mind scored on the scroll
Of my old soul as I peruse all of the beautiful
Hues that I have yet to muse, in a quest
For carpe diem & the vibe that today
Prescribes sowing a geyser gushing
With youthful zeal in everything I feel.