Petra Arcane’s Nonet Jives Live

The good doctor says Jazz is a subterfuge, a dog theft 

hidden below the cratered ground, ketchup-ridden and 

left starved to die, jagged filtered and surreptitious.

Jazz is a blind black cat dead and superstitious like

a pilgrim’s audible knock on wood.  Christ held

a grain of salt stolen from the Dead Sea, walked

through the desert chimed with glass shards; he

disappeared for many years and some say wailed

in Africa, spun like a dervish round the horn 

of plenty. Today, a platinum trumpet points to

the ceiling, channeling voices of multifarious people 

who share a common stealing, (muted with 

graceful wrists; jinx the air with thrusting hips and 

improvised retribution) ancient gold lost along the trip.