"jive talker"

"jive talker"
written with a cough you wouldn't believe by jake kilroy.

the jive musings of a manic impressive,
speaking like a trumpet
and drinking like a problem;
sleeves rolled like tidal waves,
jeans as worn as a romantic's heart,
but the grin can't ever be swiped,
no matter how often he drags his arm
across his mouth after a helping.

fog curves around the city
like a cuban dancer's hand
on a beauty that has hair like fire,
and from there, he disappears -
into cars! into lofts! into sheets!

mesmerized by the world,
with wanderlust as a madness,
he sinks into his own words
with a heavy conscience
that even a bartender couldn't save.

what became of day?
he remembered it tasted like mint
and felt like a warm towel
after a shower
somewhere else.

his skin soaks up the night
and it pulsates through his earth,
as he quakes and shivers,
waiting out breakfast for a business lunch
that he can't afford,
so he takes blood marys out for spins
and ends up in long hallways,
spitting poetry like he doesn't need to,
but he does or he'll die of grief.
what became of mourning?
he asks in between mouthfuls of eggs.
nobody answers.
he must have slept through it.