Jazz Jungle Tamara Plotnick

the song is a tree house

I'm in there with the drummer, a son of the island

he's frantic, snatching at cymbals

like far-limbed fruit,

guanabana and papaya glistening

giant ants skidaddle down base line vines

monkeys charleston over keyboards

I'm some girl climbing uninvited with girl germs and

her skirt caught in a branch, panties mooning

The drummer is the boy gathering and tossing

sticks He built this tree house

He knows which twig will send

it crashing

then fast the brass

plants a twister in the midst

whips up a frenzy of skirt, sticks

friction, instant fascination with girl germs

in the gnash of a tree house smashed

mirth in the

mash of boyish destruction

wind blows an exit boy shakes a downed branch

till the last leaf

falls

(to hush)

like the lost lover of a listener

from Tribes Issue 8