Ode to a Phillipian Tuba

If I fart through hovering cubes
of tangled rainbow-colored roses
and make lacquered cherries whose
individual names remind you of
gangsters, you will know I have

'made tuba'

If I sit speaking Spanish to no one
on a hill above Saint John's church,
you will know I have made a piece

'of a piece', and also

tuba, anarchy,

the clumsy way I decide
to air, to break wind
as if the wind itself
were a machine something less
than
my shine

you might heave up
dice-like beads of heavy roses
onto the counter

I found you first
You found me trying

we give the last lessons
the first fallopian
of Ethiopian Phillipinos

shoot

my tusks are wreathed in kissing flowers
and the virgins
that live in my tuba turban rose atrium
sing of a squalid interior of golden
and shimmering blobs of chimes

on strange flexing armatures
they control
with delicate chains
of soft and enduring money

honeyodelisques in a tuba

is a failed orgasm
when something like that
is never for ailing winds
like these

I stand in the corner
until you call me

I am hot for teacher

I am David Lee Roth
dressed as Gainsborough's
Blue Boy, and

to masslessness 'made tuba'
I jump! (punctabula)