This bassline is sticky like asphalt
and wet like molasses heated nice and hot,
and the bass drum booms my heart,
jumping me, jump-starting me
to find the path of this sluggish sound;
I follow the tap like a fly catching light
in its rainbow gossamer wings
on top of a big-ear elephant;
I follow the pluck of a mute lead-guitar string,
tacking, tacking out a tattoo to the bassline;
I let the syrup surround my legs
and my waist is moving without a cue,
without a clue of where we are going,
walking on the spot like this.
Coolly, deadly, roots sound on my back,
and I can conjure hope in anything;
dreams in my cubbyhole of a room where
the roaches scuttle from the tonguing gecko.
This music finds me giddy and centered, but when
morning comes, I am lost again, no love, just lost again.
From Jacko Jacobus. Copyright © 1996 by Kwame Dawes. Used with the permission of Peepal Tree Press.
Kwame Dawes was born in Ghana and raised in Kingston, Jamaica. The author of more than ten poetry collections, he currently serves as a Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets.
Date Published: 2017-12-22
Source URL: https://poets.org/poem/trickster-iii