after Mister T
Words, sounds, speech, men, memory,
thought, fears and emotions—time—all related …
all made from one
—John Coltrane
I pity the tongues of those for whom
cilantro tastes like soap. Pity the bruisers
and galoots who got sucked so easily
into Ali’s rope-a-dope. I pity the fear
that finds rest solely in a mirror’s graven
mug, never its ashen creosote. Pity the
solipsist for whom love’s assimilation
will always be an asymptote. I pity ears
that won’t sync mercy’s words & music,
thought’s vibration with a sung note.
I pity the indigent soul with nothing
but hollow-boned birdsong to build
its levees and bridges of hope. Pity
the soloist convinced we’re born
to live and die alone. I pity the fool
who listens to A Love Supreme
and hears a saxophone.