Sam Silva





We still make jazz, we mad blind workers

of words and sex

of passion and cathedrals

layered in wood

and bled onto a canvass


....we still...stupefy

in that drugged dumb glare

of our hearts...and there is still

fine jazz

piped in this time

on lullaby laptops...we babes

of two a.m.


I hear the dusty drum roll

done down then to brushes

or synthesized near a horn


...and I pride myself

on the holes in my jacket


my kisses are toothless now

but worshipful!


My tongue takes his cue

from the heat of your redness

and my fire burns low

till I feel what you have done


whether with the pure crush of paint that you layer

or the crush of my fingers

against your flanks


or in that private place where I pray

for your center...




Sam Silva © 2017