_____jazz isjazz is_____a root pulled from_____the african american soiljazz is_____a black locomotive thundering_____coming closer lean intovthe beat that shakes the darkened dirtjazz is_____18th and Vine in KC Mo._____walk the street turn the corner_____dip your head the kool will_____bring tears traditionjazz is_____a jam session with no script_____a birth of scat notes not_____in need of words to
(For David Sanes: first human casualty of the bombing in Vieques.) IWhat can we doif the Marines refuse to leave Viequesexcept stand up and resist? IIThe day began like any other day:crisp, the sea spray of mar Caribe wasspindrift against the rising eastern sun;sparse cumulus, like flaming galleons,were tinged with the pink, orange and red
Sometimes I get these attacksPangs, spasms A heaviness descends upon meMy breath deepens, andthe beat of my heart increases, throbbing,until it reaches a thresholdwhen I can hear it clearly Heightened emotions spread,wave-like, over meI try to swallow my dry throatMy eyebrows frown anda sorrowful look reflects upon my countenance I look around but don’t seeAnd,
We started out as one,as nature dictatesbut on separation daythere was piercing light–I resented you for that. Soon I reentered darkness(or it entered me) as defiantI wandered seeking myself in other realms I never did belong in your realm,or the hierarchy I was forced to enterevery day for twelve yearswhere I remained a silent sheepfollowing
You push the door openAnd walk into thisLittle hole in the wallOn Mass Ave., so easilyMissed if it wasn’t for theMusic streaming throughThe cracks in the wall. It’s smoky of course(All really good bars always are)And it’s dimly lit, and the sound, the musicRiding above all the smoke is bittersweet,And hints of dying dreams. The
Abundant sun, ample waterSpecial food of time-release pelletsCombo-spray for aphids and fungusGentle words of encouragementA light kneading of the soil with trusty spadeAnd yet my Alba MaximaCramoisi Superieur andComte de ChambordProduce only the scrawniest of budsThe little old ladies at the First Baptist ChurchOoh-ahh at a basket of robust blossomsFrom the garden of John FrenchA
“I have a stalker,”my student tells me.He put beer bottlesunder her tires. Hetelephones her at oddhours. While she wasin class, he brokeinto her apartment anddid “weird things.” Thepolice told her theyhave some good leads.They’re pretty sure thisguy lives in Florida.Just to be safe,a patrol car cruisesby her apartment severaltimes a day. Afterchatting for a bitlonger,
a few tense minutesreflection over refractioncontemplating bubblesand the color of your eyelashes wet the small hearti only carry violet pensit bleeds into the beer damplike memory and a new kiss the corner of your mouththe edge of smilei wipe the dangerous illusionand save it crumpled warm close later in the light of littlebeaded lamps alonewith
His casket is a large silver steel box,simple and sleek, secure as a submarine,strong enough to not be dented if dropped.It sits atop a huge wooden platform as the mourners file in–the long-retiredmilkman, the older and younger postmen,the cop who still walks the proverbialbeat. Then the dogs pad softly in–the ones who were never caught–those
