Mayakovsky’s Legacy

Still hip after all these years
of futurist fortunes
even told in outer space
by woodwinds’ words
over improvisation jazz modes

Toned and tuned up
marked by your fingers
between half-open hands
that cannot rest on old baggage
of language anywhere on earth
with the twelve-tone beat
of punctured rhythm

Breathlessly shadowing
the world’s acclamation
yet never hanging out long
by vodka glasses
filled with a touch of kvas
you cannot remember
being translucent

The unreal day before
your sensitive visit
with Stravinsky in life
and with Proust in death
when Paris’ lemony sun
still radiates on you.