Adiabatic Cooling

Sylvia Chan

                                                                                    Enough. The left hand stuck, and I
 
didn’t snap. I had been passed                                    first, though they
 
took my prize and gave back the fumble                    of Nice-Try, Your-Career’ll-Be-Over. If you
 
try this again. Which goes back to how                      appropriate it is to love someone like
 
your father. My ex speaks Hakka, which                   makes him 1/90 million worldwide. Nothing
 
compared to the 890 million Mandarin                      utterers, but he’s a gem all the time. So I talk
 
about sideman Bay Area’s Edo Castro.                      He’s no AABA Every-Breath-You-Take,
 
but his middle 8 keeps the one of                                them involved. I help this one, and when the
 
gleam of October’s Daylight                                       saves the free run of darkness, he
 
returns. You can have what you                                  want, he says, and hands Denis Johnson’s
 
Angels. As I do work in my                                         surroundings, I double back and reach
 
over. The one of them says he’ll break                      
 
the date with the other, and after the genital                slack of That-Was-Wrong, we stop the time.
 
When we stop all acid jazz becomes                            soft. I had been trying to get soul into my
 
looped beats. You’d been helped, still                         you miss. Deployed, you dry out young.
 
When you snap but I go first. Like absolute                 0’s the experience has the scald of a
 
demand of already hot, enough. Each whiff                 ‘d do anything for you
 
If the air cools below the dew point.
 
Pardon’d close with a cadence on the tonic.              This was set down in secret so unhidden or
 
half-there it pushes back up and up                            and defers the sweep down.


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