JAZZ, MAN 1
Salubrious secondary notes
Dangling from the cliff faced
Chasms between primary notes
4/4 time
5 6 7 8 time
1 on 1 time
Liquid sonic ripples
Clash and roil together
Like stone pebble raindrops
Endlessly reverberating on a shallow
Half circle lake about the size of the moon
In June wide bright high and fierce
In their laughing leapfrog syncopation
The collaborative fading with seasons turn
The notes seem small distant and alone
Somehow new in the ebb of December
Somehow a betrayal to the uninitiated ear
Tingle tumble jumble
Tapping thumping fingers
Keys attached to cords
Stringed percussion-ary caution
Lithe predawn playing
Brings back the dream
And Muppets scheme
Collaborative efforts of valve
And birdsong with breath
The wind cannot be trusted
Which brings exhilaration
The new song unsung
The old song unmastered
Dishes deconstructed
Foamed and fluoresced
Minstrels of haughty fare
One and all in one, two, three
JAZZ, MAN 2
Black liquorish and mulled brandy wine.
Sweet spicy and seductive notes
Ripple forth from the mind and soul
Of that poor flat head man.
Impossible joy, spiked with dire longing
And deceptively distant hints of loss.
The blues set on holiday in that very special Delta way
That only the nail’s head knows.
His accompaniment seeming just as crafty,
Plucky ducky picking like the petals of some celestial flower.
Timed precisely each fragrant petal perfectly pulled
In forget me not rhythm exactly the same but ever so aloof.
She loves me pluck, she loves me not plick,
She loves me plumb, she loves me not pling,
With a strum held tight, here and there
Just to remind us of a mathematicians sacred key.
She plays the cord with a broken heart
And those nimble spider’s leg fingers.
Strumming out the rhythm like a drum beat
As I sit entranced within her web.
They roil together at the back of the lizard lounge,
With a skinny sweaty man in a green
hard handled suit, bleeding from the ears
having listened so long.
Here’s to their sweet succubus-stations!
Jazz, MAN 3
[Brubeck @ 624 Morning St.]
Cascading falls of percussion,
little soft shoe mallets
on finely tuned tensile strings.
Waterfalls of M.C. Escher sound
roll round and round, cleaning off
the thought rock inside my skull.
Sweet caramel, butter toffee, brazen,
Rum-Ripple-Rikkle and shimmer,
with high bright notes that sparkle
but disassemble my guard.
A horn, of clear distinction, muddles
it’s way through foggy morning eyes.
With a breath and a shudder,
another breath and a shake,
a surreal hushhh tisk, hushhhh tisk,
the whispering whisk slides across snare.
I can hear the metallic chain linking,
it’s trap sings out my own anticipation.
Three play rock steady as one heart,
beating time kept by the master clock,
more intricate than any Swiss chronometer,
as accurate as the universe’s calculus,
keeping even the stars and planets
in line and on time. Brubeck! With a
Summer Song for a morning cathedral,
a review where the church pews all sing.
With a smile, I invent a brand-new day. | JM
Wow! These poems are music.