Mr Ayers

Mr Ayers staggers across The evening news Unwrapped Like a bojangles from his blues Pictures of things to fly Tangled in the hair Like bats Lips on golden fruits His finger moves And from the basoon rise A string Of melodies blending on surprise. Do not stereotype the sound Classic Bethoven On the melting ground Winged to light Shutting the shades Of psychiatric nightmares Sterile scholarship Without seed For what gnaws a man's soul That beauty is a pursuit That will not allow Unfaithfulness The eyes cannot see Another form undress And be true To the mating of the soul With the gift Bare upon the breast Of supple loveliness. Strange how many times We past the treasure Insignificant Waiting for the discovery Of another's eyes Because we cannot deny self To walk alone the tossing sea of shivering storm We more fragile Than the toxic nerve Our esteem too sensitive To recieve What this man Looking down Yet not out lives to give Now we rinse surprise And love The prairie hen Rising to eagle our eyes Unmuting the strings Of human Brotherliness.