Sean Singer

Max Roach/Max Ernst

Play Budeedaht for an oasis and enamel the zephyrine, Shadow.
Unwrap the sunlight gumming the lovelorn, Tangerine.
Grip the fleet beams of the window bracket, Seersucker.

Rubber blossoms collapse. Itís a canary Floridita
Stirring the brushwork. With two brushes and a phonebook,
Max made everyone sink into swelling movement.

Raillery you say. Hay you say. Firmament made me say you say:
Laser layering and a coin and a 45 a day. Play that fen. Play bay.
How you paid a due when Diz displayed the beret over the grey?

The windís tight lamp announced its nine presets: vandate of copper,
Volcaniclastic, the blue whisper in a crystal. All the celestial spaces
Have their Maxes, also volvoxes and diatoms, shining like foxes.

The ride haunts the beach as the waves pounce the cliffs.
A bunker outpost on mirrored shore, as the glass shines.
Metal rain pieces the blood-root grass and clandestine night.

The drums make an echo through the air.
The air, clean as a bell, remains outside.
Each note is heavy with nitrogen like a storm.

Itís an ubu imperator slinging his red castle,
Heís a seedless waterformer, but he fits a viewerís
Nerves within his nerves because style is the tailor.