Ode to a Hurricane

Like a god-willing president

you, hurricane

hide secrets

in your trumpeted

arms.

Queen of subatomic

musicians

you call

you profess

and governments respond

with a dancing,

bamboozling FEMA.

As your career

intensifies

we warm the stage

for you, dear hurricane.

You are the polyphonic

drummer

of our step tombs,

the jazz

funeral

of our emancipation

proclamation.

Through your chakric

eye

we discover ourselves

lying faceless

in toxic mud

of indigent

minds.

Now with common

ground,

the vocal poor, choral      

activists, and jambalaya

lovers await you,

dear hurricane.

Come listen

to our ragtimes

in our ruined,

packed Cathedrals

our booming bars

and gumbo streets.

Come sing

to the hiphop

jazz of our erratic

hearts

and we’ll make

a fresh recording,

a hurricane release

of, “House of the Rising Funds”.