John Coltrane blows ashen wind at the stars

Jack and Bill and Allen
were so incontinent
so profligate
with their feelings
that even a dead cactus
crushed by the wreckage
of a fallen aircraft nearby
would not fail to arouse them

squatting there in the desert
in sudden angst
already turning yellow

fuck me says Bill
you see that?
not any more says Allen
oh do it anyway says Jack
and he laughs like stars
of quiet thunder
all down the road
from the New Jersey turnpike
to Santa Cruz

with their poems
just waiting to ship out

with those songs
of the open sea
arrayed before them

as so many fingers of quiet mescal
.
.