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April 9, 2010, National Poetry Month, Prompt: State of Affairs

 April 9, 2010: State of Affairs Night

April 9, 2010: State of Affairs


My body doesn’t creak,
Rattle or groan,

It sings in B Flat, minor
Chord, bopped and burned
Parts brought to the surface
with the Messengers
jamming up Dizz

This gastrocnemius stretched
to a non reaching bend
isn’t stiff old age but a bow

along Jymie Merritt’s bass
not tingling but swinging
That night in Tunisia

Oh Messengers you didn’t
tell me which tune
was coming in my second half

The crack of the neck,
turning chin right and left
A crescendo of tension

Salved by the drumming
on the bell of Wayne Shorter’s
alto, calling nuit noire

Opens up the joint the canal
to the Maghreb and my neuroma
burning between my toes
tears metatarsal F sharp
the fingers of Walter D, Jr
hitting all the black notes.

I’m journeying, non stop
the days rush ahead of me
and I try to catch up, my knees
notice the rocks, push back
swell into the flare, Lee
Morgan’s push on the pads
pulse, and I match it, shoulders
to the moon, Africa

I run my best after sunset
The pound of my body
against the dirt, drumming
The old paths, ancient
with messages, strike skin,
strike bell, feather cymbals

I get, Art Blakely, why
this story infused you with
the turbo kick on that drum
arms that flew like helicopter
blades, persistent cymbals
sweat covered wood

How the body lasts
how the music carries it
enters the blood vessels,
the arteries, soothe the patella
lubricate the rotators, sharpen
the eyes as clear as the day
Dizzy dreamt Cuban and African
And a long life.

3 Comment count
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Delightful read

My favorite line is"sharpen the eyes as clear as the day Dizzy dreamt Cuban and African And a long life." Wish I had written it.
Thank you, from another jazz lover.

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Lisa's Lament


You woke up this morn with a hole in your head;
A bedpan was under your hips;
A bouquet of IV's was stuck in each vein
As slobber poured forth from your lips

You haven't a clue how you got in this place;
Of your mind, you've long been bereft;
Your name, once familiar, escapes you just now,
But take heart; we'll work with what's left

You say you were sipping some tea in L.A.;
That's odd, 'cuz we found you up here,
Wand'ring the tundra with nary a coat,
But we'll sort it out, don't you fear

You say you remember a jazz band that irked you
And a purse of unusual skin,
And an odd little key made of brass, with a stamp,
You found lying somewhere within

There there, little lady; you've had a rough day,
Don't worry youself so with that sighing,
That bone-chilling feeling you've had all along,
Is just from those drugs we've been trying

So work with us child; we know what we're doing,
We're physicians, of that be assured;
If there's anything left in that gourd on your shoulders,
We'll find it, and you will be cured.

Or not.


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poor lisa


And in the end, the love you take, is equal to the love, you make (paul mc cartney)