(Published in Miami Herald on May 26, 2014 Brigitte Jacobs Arnold
Obituary Guest Book View Sign ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI. Services will be held at 7:00 pm and a viewing from 12:00 pm to 8:00pm at Maspons Funeral Home located at 3500 SW 8th Street, Miami Florida 33135 Wednesday May 28th.)


Don’t ask me why but
I went online this afternoon.
Read the Miami-Herald obituaries.
And not just the Biggies:
Maya Angelou at 86 and
A one hundred year old Herb Jeffries.
Of course we knew Maya,
Her caged bird singing
Softly in our souls,
But may not be aware of Herb Jeffries.
A former singer in the Ellington band,
Herb was known as the Bronze Buckaroo,
In a series of all-black 1930s Westerns--
His nickname evoking
His racial identity,
Quite muddled, flexible.

Although both sad passages to be sure,
It was neither Maya nor Herb
Triggering my tender tears.
But the obituary of:
ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI,
Known as Oma, Mutti and Mama.
Well, not exactly the Brigitte obit,
My tears for her long-lived mother,
Brigitte’s mother, durable & abiding,
Still breathing at 97:
Hildegard Wolle.
Reading Brigitte’s bio—
German born, Berlin student,
Singer-fashionista &
Proud, naturalized
American citizen—
I can’t stop thinking about Hildegard.
As if the woman didn’t already
Have more than her share of trouble
On this planet nearly a century,
Having already lost her
Grandson Roland, and now,
Her daughter.
Something wacky is going on here.
Some long-distance life lesson
Being applied here.
Poor Hildegard: ungifted with Alzheimer’s,
Suffers crystal distant memories,
Some really bad karma
Stored up in past lives.

Some say, we don't need black history month.
When in truth we do.
Would the contribution of African American be taught truthfully.
If we had to depend on you know who?

Obviously, they very unaware of several successful black that contributed to America's greatness.
We, very well aware they edited down facts to be turn into fiction.
Like that president that chopped down that cherry tree.

Many doesn't know the plight of Washington, Dubois, Carver.
Let alone know their first name.
It's hardly taught, if it's about us.

George Franklin, Grant-dentist
Ernest Everett, Just.-Scientist
Josh Gibson, one of the greatest baseball player.

We know very well about George, Thomas and James and John Q.

Some say, we all Americans
And in truth, they completely right.
But for reasons very well known.
We are not all equal in sights of others.

When needed, they call upon us to join in.

Some still, say-why do Black history month exist?
But all cultures knows none was eliminated through times.
Than those captured to come here and renamed after their masters.

And facts be told, this cultures lives to embrace into their children's if nothing is ever mention by certain teachers about their cultures.
Than they will keep it before them.

Matthew Alexander, Henson-Explorer
Billie Holiday-singer
Duke Ellington and Count Basie and Cab Calloway.

Greatness, we can't let fade.

Vernon Jordan
Shirley Chilsom
And hosts of present days teachers that push the issues to educate.

Those that say, we don't need Black History months.
Be crying , if we try to eliminate theirs.
Cause that's all they ever known.

Howard University.
Tennessee State and Fisk and various others came to be because of discrimination.
And has turned out some brilliant African Americans.

So our history is needed.
Cause it's about us.
Like Latin History and various others is about other cultures.

radiating
street lamps
ionized the
indigo blue
haze charging
the night air

sparking the
city’s eclectic
currents coursing
through the
abandoned raceways
and empty streets

energizing the
phantoms of
the city’s
restive spirits

the ghosts of past
Great Falls Fests came
jitterbugging back
to life

transparent
veils lifting
and falling
with it, a voltaic
indigo blue
billowed out of the
abandoned stadium
pouring smoking
oboe moans
into the cavity
of the great gorge

“I was one of the last
to perform at
Hinchliffe Stadium”
Duke proclaimed
with his usual  
distinguished air

“it was also one of my
last concerts”, he added
with a tinge of
sorrow in his voice

“the band was rockin
the Art Deco tiles,
splintering and shattering
into bits of earth toned graffiti
the last vestiges of
a bygone Jazz Age
dissolving into the
disco fizz of the
Seventies”

the indigo mood
clamoured off
the rocks absorbing
the sonorous waves
like a stand of
hallowed
sequoias

“I’m trying to
remember what
my last tune
was that night.

was it Caravan?
or a Prelude to
a Kiss?  No no
too mellow
we always ended
on an upper
a real crowd pleaser,
I recall the boys swung
a medley before the grand finale
that medley included
Mood Indigo, Caravan,
Sophisticated Ladies,
Prelude to a Kiss.
We opened with Kinda Dukish
Rockin and Rhythm
we closed with
Satin Doll
Yes I’m quite sure
I waltzed them
off the floor
that night with
Satin Doll”

Duke ran his
fingers through
his processed hair.
He grabbed my shoulders
raised his baggy eyelids
And looked me straight
In the eye

“Yes, we followed
Tito Puente, he killed it
we upped our game
He was just starting out
But at this time Silk City
was going Caribe
Juan Tizol was
out of his mind that night,
I thought him and Babs
we're gunna jump ship
and join the Salsa Circus
Yeah El Rex and Celia Cruz
were that good

El Rex had the place
jumpin and jivin
it was a glimpse of the old days
livin in the here and now
just like the old days
I couldn't compete with that
so I waltzed them off
the floor with Satin Doll
a little cheek to cheek swoon
maybe some guys got lucky that night
and maybe some girls fell in love
Yeah Paterson was changing,
the ***** Leagues long gone
the last ****** Auto Races
crossed the final finish line weeks before
when the raceways in the stadium
replaced the raceways to the factories
we knew it was coming to an end
and with it all the good paying
jobs, whatta shame
just like me and the boys
watching El Rex
the Duke was dethroned by a King
just like Silk City
we had our day in the sun too
a Satin Doll Sun
Those were some good times,
sometimes”

Duke scratched
his head,
and he looked down into
the swirling noise
of the Great Falls
“on a night like this
the mood indigo
takes you into the
darkest hues of blues”

fragment from
Silk City PIT 6:
The Great Falls

Duke Ellington, Coleman Hawkins
Mood Indigo




Oakland
3/30/13
jbm

(FRAGMENT WORK IN PROGRESS)

Part 6 of extended poem Silk City PIT.  PIT is an acronym for Point In Time.  PIT is an annual census American cities conduct to count the homeless population.  Hope and Labor is the city motto of Paterson NJ, nick named The Silk City.

LOVE AND LOVERS

by

TOD HOWARD HAWKS


Chapter 20

"Jon...Jon," said Bian.

"Yes, Bian," replied Jon.

"Jon, you really do love everyone, don't you?' asked Bian.

Jon paused--a much longer pause than usual--then said "Yes, Bian, I do. It's because Maggie, our Black maid as I was growing up, loved me so much.  

"I love all 8 billion human beings on Earth. The problem is that I just haven't had the chance to tell each one of them this. Realizing our goal of passing CAMPAIGN FOR EARTH will be my first opportunity to do so.  

"I believe every child is conceived with the innate capacity--"the seed of love" I call it--to love, but that "seed" can only be germinated by being loved, usually, but not necessarily, by one's biological parents. If the child is not loved enough, or tragically not at all, then the child will not be able to love her/himself or others;  rather, the child will carry unconsciously varying degrees of pain caused by the child's lack of being loved for her/his lifetime, unless the child is later loved fully by someone else.

"The collective effort we are now undertaking is different from the aforementioned only by degree, not by kind.

"Earth, and the vast majority of human beings who inhabit it, suffer terribly from the dearth of love--not only emotional love, but also from the paucity of compassion, which is a form of love. Witness poverty and hunger and homelessness. Lack of universal quality education and universal free medical care. Profitting from the pain of others. Unbridled corruption and seemingly endless wars. Catastrophic climate change and the existential threat of nuclear holocaust. Life on Earth doesn't have to be like this."

Bian put her arms around her husband and gave him a big, long hug, then the two sat down together on their sofa.

"Bian, would you mind if I played my tape of MOOD INDIGO by Duke Ellington?" asked Jon. Beethoven was Jon's favorite, but he also enjoyed jazz.

"I would enjoy that," said Bian.

While they listened to the music, Jon reached in his satchel and pulled out his pen and a piece of blank paper and began writing a poem. Jon finished writing the poem as the music was ending.

"Would you like to hear the poem I just wrote?" Jon asked Bian.

"Of course," said Bian.

"The title of my new poem is JAZZ LIKE A RIVER.


JAZZ LIKE A RIVER

Jazz like a river, headwaters of ragtime
and blues, new orleans, chicago, harlem,
kansas city, armstrong and ellington, holiday
and fitzgerald, cotton club, 52 street, rapids
and rhythms, ******-induced sweetness
and savagery, swinging swing, rivulets
of cords and discords, til 3 in the morning,
mourning the demise of Bird, litany of
gillespie and davis, brubek's west coast
tributary, coltrane, roach, mingus,
ameriica's sinuous contribution to the
nile and amazon of world's music.

i don't why, but it just happens sometimes,
one minute you're listening to Ryan Adams'
self-titled album with that pillar of
rock stay with me reading the Sunday Times
style magazine after having digested
the culture magazine and the Sunday Times
magazine, bobbing along to an article about
the singer Ariana Grande, seeing her almost
kissing a pooch on a skyscraper (*****,
that tongue's been up my ***, so said the pooch)
and you don't get Ryan Adams,
****'s a gridlock, a traffic jam, it doesn't
have a care for Pearl Jam and the wilderness of
Canada... so you switch listening material
to Herbie Hancock's cantaloupe island,
and suddenly you're in Philip Larkin territory...
it's funny to say that slavery of the africans
by the english to colonise the American continent
gave us fewer princes bored by Mozart
stating 'too many notes' - well jazz has enough
too many, notes, because there's this whole impromptu
going on; in my collection of the genre?
a decent list: sonny clark's complete works,
sonny clark's cool struttin',
cannonball aderley's somethin' else,
cedric 'im' brooks united africa,
booker t & the m.g.'s green onions (~jazz),
thelonious monk's monk's blues,
thelonious monk's criss-cross,
egberto gismonti's solo, eric dolphy's out to lunch,
donald byrd's royal flush, duke ellington's soul call,
terry callier's occasional rain, guru's jazzmatazz vol. 1,
miles davis' ******* brew / sketches of spain /
kind of blue / porgy and bess / the complete birth of the cool,
hurbie hancock's takin' off / my point of view,
steve kuhn trio's wisteria, joshua redman's back east,
freddie hubbard's hub-tones, john coltraine's blue train /
a love supreme, nina simone's nina simone at the village gate,
bobby mcferrin's spontaneous innovations,
chet baker's my funny valentine, dexter gordon's go!,
us3's hand on the torch, sonny rollins' ballads,
freddie hubbard's ready for freddie,
art blakey's moanin', kenny burrell's midnight blue,
chick corea's now he sings now he sobs,
mccoy tyner's the real mccoy, dianne reeve's i remember,
duke ellington's money jungle, horace silver's song
for my father, jimmy smith's back at the chicken shack,
wayne shorter's ju lu...
so with this mind, from bukowski the baton was
passed, don't get me wrong, i appreciate classical
music, but jazz is too much poetry,
not really the makings of coupling the two like
the Beats... just that they originate with a sentiment
best stated: 'what the **** was that?'
reverse aerodynamics: actually, no, proper
aerodynamics: you see the plane and then get the score
sheet... those European composers must have
been literally mad, so many instruments encoded,
pitches, larks, stresses of a violin's specific accenting
that wouldn't never sound like a nail scratching
blackboard... i know it's horrid to compliment
slavery... but hell... without it no jazz,
just stuck in a rut with classical whitey boys...
and no jazz no blues... no future rock or pop...
if there's anything to redeem the trade it's this music,
and, let me tell you, jazz is urbanity a soul of
frank o'hara's new york, it's amplified in
a suburban environment, never did suburbia
bordering on countryside feel so cosmopolitan,
but i'm adding this amplification to have been
aided by the number of birds i can spot, lazily
from my window...
and god, i love the fact that in jazz you can
have a specific bloom for each instrument used,
you can have a horn, a sax, a drum a bass solo
all in one go, so it's not as monochromatic as in
rock music (primarily occupied with
lead guitar solos, in the 1970s the drum solos
of john bonham) - all in one go i.e.
the tactful representation of each instrument,
the sort of football match analogy where every
player gets a touch of the ball / limelight.

It’s April,
And I am the fool.
It’s Tax Day,
And I've made my mark as “single.”
It’s Earth Day,
And you'll never give me a bouquet, so just pick me a flower.
It’s Duke Ellington Day,
And you like jazz music as much as you like when I call you my King, so why am I still waiting in line for the throne?
--------------------
It's Spring,
And I am in love.

Inspired by: Duke Ellington "Solitude"

The lights low
Music slow
My palm rests itself on the small of her back
My shoulder holding the weight of her head
The rhythm of "Solitude" moving the souls of our feet
With every step builds our wall of love
Taking away
All the pain we thought was here to stay

God is certainly on my side
As her eyes begin to hide
A ghosted smile upon her lips
Bring her closer, grab her hips

Tonight I fall in love
With a beauty that can only be sent from above
I take away her fear
Take away her shame
Take away her pain

Tonight we lock our hands
As we end our Lovers Dance

Welcome, stranger Sun
we ain't seen in you in
a long time, Daddy
come & sleep in the fields
& re-spark the colors of the city
bless the children
playing with gravity
on the dizzy trampoline
shine on the ragged jazzman
playing Ellington
I don't mind,
if it's just for today
just for today
I'll eat ice cream
& converse with you a little while
& tell you how
Mamma rain's doing
& write you that poem
I promised you long ago
if you're lucky

Thomas Thornburg killed a man last week.
Shot him in the chest from his front porch.
Said he had it coming, but he didn't know why.
The white-haired prophet/executioner.
The confession was perhaps surpassed in the news
by the miracle of Tom finding the the trigger.
Thomas Thornburg brandished 104 years
of what he hesitantly called life.

When brought before the judge he denied representation.
"Never had nobody say nothing for me."
When the gavel struck, Tom raised his hand
and took with his age, his permission.
"Your honor," began the old man's graveled voice,
"This here is not a fair trial."
"You ma'am," he pointed to the woman in blue
who shifted her feet beneath her juror's chair,
"What did you make of Stalin?"
"And you," to the well-groomed 20-something with hair,
"Where were you when they bombed Hiroshima?"
The judge began a sentence he was forced to cut short.
"Ma'am, I imagine you might recollect Duke Ellington,
but I shook hands with Scott Joplin,
and had more than my share of drinks with Fats Waller."
"Mr. Thornburg," said the judge in a patient tone,
"is there a point to your interrogation of the jury?"

"Find me eyes, judge," said the stolid man in lowered tone
"that have seen what I've seen,
that knew life before world wars were named.
Eyes that have watched generations die
and everything change but politicians.
Find me a man who has had the displeasure
of waking up more mornings than there are in a century,
and I will call THAT man my peer."

Tom then turned and, on the weight of his cane,
shed the last of his living tears.

It's about fashion, fabric and one of the most fantastic days in a couple's life.

For the fifth year, the MTSU Department of Human Sciences and Oaklands Mansion are partners in presenting "Wedding Dresses through the Decades." The exhibit is slated for Sunday, Jan. 10, through Sunday, March 6, at the mansion, 900 N. Maney Ave. in Murfreesboro.

"We are building a tradition that links generations," said Deborah Belcher, chair of the human sciences department. "The historic details and family stories are exquisite, heartwarming and engaging."

A broad diversity of styles in the exhibit represents the changing tastes and mores of American society.

"The Textiles, Merchandising and Design program at MTSU maintains a 750-plus piece collection of historic garments, and we'll have four of our wedding gowns on display," said Teresa King, a professor in the human sciences department.

Those four gowns are from the years 1860, 1891, 1900 and 1912. Overall, the display includes wedding dresses from 1947 through today, including the 2008 gown of WSMV-TV anchor/reporter Demetria Kalodimos, an original design by Rosie Woodruff of Textile Fabrics in Nashville.

"The TXMD program also offers a course entitled 'History of Fashion,' which introduces students to the study of garments and accessories throughout history," said King. "Students will have the opportunity to visit the Oaklands wedding gown exhibit and see history unfold as told from a bridal history perspective."

In addition, King said students from the "Fashion Illustration" course have visited previous exhibits and sketched original renditions of wedding gowns from various periods.

"Both experiences allow students to apply the knowledge gained from these TXMD courses," King said.

In addition, items from the MTSU collection will be on display in windows in the Learning Resources Center and the Ellington Human Sciences Building on campus beginning in mid-January after students return for the spring 2016 semester.

These garments will include two dresses from the 1970s and a man's suit and a woman's suit from the 1940s.

read more:http://www.marieaustralia.com

www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses

I read about Martin.
I read about Malcolm.
I read about Rosa.
I read about Muhammad Ali.
The people that started a revolution to solve a resolution.

I read about Harriet.
I read about Charles Drew.
I read about Nat Turner.
I read about George Washington, Carver.
Some many still re unaware of to this day.

I read about Sojourn Truth.
I know of Thurgood Marshall.
I read about the Count, the Duke, that's Ellington.
And Aretha and James  Brown too.
All apart of the movement of African Americans fight.
All faced injustice for trying to do things right.

I read about  Althea Gibson.
And the Civil Rights protesters fighting against fools.
Some, we see still operating like they still trying to rule.

I hope those reading this has learned something too.

I sit beside myself on mornings like this, one coffee between us. We grab a chair facing the window. I ask, "What is her favorite color?"

A wordless song pours overhead: 'Sophisticated Lady' by Duke Ellington. We barely know her. "In jazz, the solos are the parts you look forward to," I convince myself.

"These things take time," I add. So we wait staring out the window at the road ahead, until the untouched coffee settles to room temperature. We leave it there, head for the door into the rainy December mist.

She shows up hours later, orders an Earl Grey, sits in the same chair. She covers her face with the latest issue of The Stranger, opened to the horoscope.  

"You will fall back in love with yourself." Coffee and rain sound good together, and Seattle knows it. They bring out the clear blue sky within. Or at least that's what I'd tell her.

We all have our taste.
We all are judgments.
And in music there's no different.
Except, people personal opinions.

Benny Goodman.
Duke Ellington.
Glenn Miller.
Doing their time, they were the music of soul to many.
When people probably dance a little different.

Frank Sinatra.
Vic Damone.
Nat King Cole.

Doing their era music had changed.
More was borrowed from the previous decade.

Elvis.
Little Richard.
Buddy Holly.
Fats Domino.
Gene Vincent.
Jackie Wilson and Sam Cooke.
And yes, Pat Boone too.
The music of the soul were beaingt to a different tone.

Then came the sixties.
And a various style came before us.

The Rascals.
The Beatles.
Donovan.
The Beach Boys.
The Temptations and the Supremes and the Miracles.
Was totally changed from Neal Sedaka early days.

James Taylor, Carole King, Elton John and the Eagles.
Marvin Gaye, Teddy Pendegrass and the O'jays.
Was the masters of the seventies decades

The the eighties came.
And again the music changed.
Rick James, Prince and Madonna too.

Don't we see all the above artists in the music of today.
Especially, in rap.
Where they take an old song and tries to create a new tune.
And questions, why they getting sued?

there should be easier ways to buy jazz records...
perhaps i should be more familiar
with black literature... perhaps will alexander
is not enough... oh god: i just stepped into
a reverse psychology faux pas...

  again...

there should be easier ways to buy jazz records...
but clearly there aren't...
for years and years i sat on the tube as it rolled
between leytonstone and leyton...
they now have a grand mount... for the new graves...
prior to... the graveyard stretched...
almost the entire distance from one station
of the central line to the next...

i did plan to go into london before
lying myself to sleep... once upon a time i would
go all the way... into tourist central...
i'd go and do the usual... tate modern...
tate national...
i even dressed myself for the occassion...
well... "dressed"...
does a dog change its fur...
i had to capture the sensation of wearing
the same clothes for long enough...
washing, personal hygiene -
change of t-shirts... of course...
but today i was going to buy myself some
jazz records...

i couldn't just hop on the bus (when was
the last time i used a bus -
rather the centipede of my own legs?
you never forget to swim or ride a bicycle -
when was the the last time
i used the tube?) -  and just head to the shop...

that would be so boring...
and i'm not a female to window-shop either...
what ensured a diversion?
immaculate timing...
   walking up to the bus stop...
a girl... probably 16... sitting and waiting...
bus pulls up... i gesticulate: ladies first...
and she gives me a smile...

that decided... winter! it's winter!
and Freya's daughter took a needle's eye
and brought me before the altar of my original
whim...
jumped on the 66 bus and then on
the central line... newbury park,
gants hill, redbridge, wanstead,
leytonstone... leyton... and onto st. patrick's
roman catholic cemetary...

just before spring comes...
to find the absolute nadir of winter -
perhaps autumn is when romance novels
are written about death...
but i much prefer graveyard in winter...
i would have gone further into london:
but those jazz vinyls are not going
to buy themselves...
plus... i find graveyards... well...
hardly morbid... i like them because...
esp. the roman catholic ones...
have statues... and...
well... who wouldn't want to see
a museum of statues: al fresco!

reiteration - because i can't mumble
or metaphor myself or make this succinct...
graveyards are museums al fresco...
whoever was the sculptor... of the crude stone...
the second artist... the weatherer has also
done his bit... coy wind... a splattering
of "paint" with rain...
the... basking in the sun...
the drop in temperature...
i like to see the "other" artist at work...
give me this one life's span a peek into
the deeds of this almost eternal sculpture
baron...

whether god or: death personified...
               the theological god can return to his
origins story... the sun the moon the stars
the: what came first the chicken or the egg...
what came first... the spiderweb or the spider?
pointless hamsterwheel questions:
a priori this... a posteriori that...
museums are stuffy... they might hold
under their roof... in pristine vacuum...
the Elgin marbles... but i want to visit a museum
that breathes! these gravestone statues...
breathe! if you're not careful enough...
you might see a wandering eye...
as if someone transcendent has touched them...

graveyards: museums al fresco...
and in winter? and it's your typical sodden...
overcast... london clepsydra of drool and dire
and the scent of wet dog fair...
and there is no chance to intoxicate yourself
with the decomposition of autumn's fall:
banquet of leaves... and that sickly sweet
botanical scent of decay...
it's winter and raindrops become piercing
needles of sensation...
you wouldn't even dare... to blink.
                    
- of course i had to take a few photographs...
it would be weird if i didn't...
once upon a time even death was due
man's concern for beauty...
in these grave statues... whether it's a 1000th
jesus or some obscure saint...
whatever it was... it was certainly worth...
imitating a ******... getting all wet with
goosebumps on the ******* sack tickling you...
no hard-on... whenever you'd want
to gasp and spew some variation whale
sonar: morse onomatopoeia: coy cooing an ooh...

so back on the tube and to the record store...
****... need to ****...
to the pub and half a pint of guinness...
again: a woman's smile is so up-lifting...
and that surprise as you're only there for half
a pint... up the stairs to the toilet and...
out the pub...

the thing about buying jazz records...
why would i buy a gramaphone...
if i didn't intend to only buy jazz records for it?
why buy, modern vinyl?
the thing about buying jazz records...
you need to know a few names...
you always look at the... "starring"...
i know there's another term for what i'm
looking for... "starring" is easy...
and it's in no way related to the word:
repetroire... but it is french etymologically:
although mutated from: ensemble...

i'm pretty sure there is an english equivalent
to ensemble: which is not "starring"...
accompanied by...
                 that sort of mid-way introductory
statement by the vocalist...
on the piano we have...
on the guitar we have... and each band member
does a little accent impromptu:
accent impromptu: which is not a full-on
hair-metal solo 2 hour slow bbq **** chicken
strutting send-off into the stratosphere...

never mind... can't a white guy just appreciate
jazz... i'm tired of the sycophants of classical music...
including charles bukowski...
the japanese have covered this sycophancy
and elevated it to virtuosity of the drum-kit
monkey... fair play...
but jazz never allows you to... over-think...
anything... a head without thought
and all that sea of feel...
logic is over-rated... i like my cushion of
the antithesis of descartes: res cogitans in that
i find pleasure... in res vanus...
- and classical music is over-thought...
to me at least... it's a falling piano of notes
and no breather... no feel for bass drums or pause...
for an accent of sorts...
no real idiosyncracy - beside the idiosyncracy
of the oeuvre...

jazz says to me: i don't want to over-think:
not-thinking...
it's as simple as that... i hardly think a cat
allows that onomatopoeia: meow...
i hardly think a dog allows that onomatopoeia:
bark / woof... to enter and govern his mind...
this imitation of being: surrounded
by beings with complex prompts and
a car-wreck of sounding verbiage...
hardly a woof or a meow to be "deconstructed"
in those furry-heads of theirs...
how does a sax sound in my head...
when i can't hear a sax outside of it...
i'm not a composer... letters would congest
the sponge... soapy water instead
of live-young evian... pristine cool and crisp...

drums and all their ambience...
when there's the intro by the horn...
before the protagonist sax takes over...
sly little horn...
jazz... i don't like to over-think not-thinking...
classical music?
i tend to over-think not-thinking...
with jazz i can never over-think not-thinking...
because: feelz... and what-not...
it's hardly an armchair of apathy...
it's hardly a sofa of tolerance...
it's a cushion for a head that sometimes
feels like a tonne of lead...
and the air doesn't become water: "magically"
to even wish for a sinking sensation...
blurps of bubbles no...
there's only the almighty fall or an explosion...

feelz... (this will be addressed...
the Z... in german... that i do promise...)

- again, not again, again... i can't buy the same old
stale **** narrative behind the slave trade...
there's a jack of spades in here somewhere...
no blacks in h'america: no jazz...
it's that simple... god forbid where i'd be at if
i were to still praise the suffocating confines
of classical music...
this is classical music to me...
this is... everything that's suffocating about
Bach's innovative polyphony...
polyphony sure... but what jazz allows and
what classical music doesn't...
it's hardly called a solo if only the piano gets
it... a chopin or a liszt...
any... famous violinists sharing the stage
with the pianists... the piano is the only instrument
that's allowed a solo: proper...
but in jazz... you can get all the instruments
in the ensemble given a fair share...
no africans coming over to h'america...
no jazz... instead:
       pirouettes in corsets and crinolines!
ugh...
               liberated into: chain-smoking
and giggling why pulling an imaginary chain
saying: choo! choo! this train has nowhere
to stop... beside a tomorrow...
and should tomorrow come...
                                      that's still only a gamble!

jazz because there is no singing...
            well... 'my funny valentine'... chet baker...
better known on screen as ethan hawke...
astronaut... thespian... at large chameleon...
dat dere: the disappointment from
having chamelon leather shoes...
that will riddle... should ever a pair be made...
no fluorescence no change in the weather...
just at the time of the killing...
would the pigment remain: "thus desired"?
well... i don't know what the muslims
and the yids have against pork...
i'm pretty sure most standards of belts
and shoes are... made from pork skin...
which is... well... leather...
perhaps they should don the orthodox ***
yom kippur statement of running
into the synagogue wearing sneakers!

just saying... porky pink and whitey sneaked
in with a guitar and a piano...
sonny clark also tip-toed on the black
and white cascade...
                                  interludes from absence...
or the myth of the custard -
               it boils like a voice unearthed from
mud... tinged with surprises of a canary...
gloating glutton of the stove...
               jazz in the kitchen,
jazz in the bedroom... jazz in the living room...
jazz sitting up, jazz sitting down,
jazz drinking a hop-heavy lager...
jazz sober...
                                        it's not jazz:
because i live in new york and i have a feel
for the romance with frank o'hara and all things
gay and otherwise cosmopolitan...
romford is probably like hull...
and i'm the antithesis of phil larkin...
my verse is more scribbles and scrabble than
his neat: your parents ****** you...

jazz is a rebellion akin to 'my parents ****** me'
when they fed me a classical music diet
as a child... rock guns 'n' roses grunge and punk
were minor rebellions: teasing pop...
but nothing to match to the diet of classical music
ingested early on in life...
                          jazz was and is, though...

- when buy a jazz record... you have to look for
the usual suspects...
sometimes you look what the lead protagonist
is playing... after hearing Grachan Moncur III's
avant-garde... i'm not convinced...
but there is a list of the usual suspects...
evolution just reminded me of everything
i didn't like about eric dolphy's out to lunch...
but there's a list of usual suspects...

'i can't believe i almost bought a vinyl of a c.d.
i already own... money jungle by duke ellington...
good that i didn't...'

the usual suspects of an ensemble alternating:
eric dolphy, paul chambers, freddie hubbard,
sonny clark, joe chambers, herbie hancock,
john coltraine, sonny rollins, kenny burnell,
art blakey...            wayne shorter...
what would probably become equivalent to...
sitting through a ****** movie...
but otherwise finding the end-credits more
entertaining... the ******-movie of what's not
remembered as that golden fleece of mid-20th
century nostalgia...
i once placed my nostalgia in h'american
hippy culture... come to think of it...
i guess my nostalgia is: the coming out of
1950s america and no quiet going the full mile
into beatnik poetry recitations with jazz
in the background...
no one would **** the poets:
instead the jazz musicians...
                     somewhere cowering under
an umbrella sown together from moth wings...
assuring himself a lightbulb was
the sun... evidently no formality of language
genesis: dear sir / madam
exodus: yours sincerely / yours faithfully...
and all of this... in between?

                         shoes shoes...
two jazz records is hardly an extravagance...
these days...
oliver nelson - the blues and the abstract truth...
sonny rollins - the bridge (jim hall on guitar)...
well... because sonny rollins and: colossus...
24 quid...
                why am i supposed to remember
the slave trade... am i a native of these parts?
i thought i was the "dumb ******" industrial n-----
joke? don't shoot the messanger...
do i look like i've just killed your grandma'
by playing a ******* harmonica?
not everyone is going to be listening to rap...
what jazz gave rap... isn't gonna give
that easily for me to ingest... *****-nilly...
sonny rollins... looks like a well attired man...
even if it is 1963... perhaps my own ambitions are lax...
i'm the son that wouldn't become
his father... and he was always the son
that was going to overshadow his father...
and that leaves me with my paternal grandfather...
all that remains to be said...
by my maternal grandfather: we has a hard worker...
well... stick that as an epitaph for
anyone without an epitaph on their grave...
i'm sure those dates will look like
candy dripping from a ******* rainbow
any day soon!

thighs, legs in total, comic sanskirt of the brains
between the gallows of *******....
and hands: all those geisha hands...
are the erotica canvas for my no-thrills
genocide *****-and-tic canvas work of a tissue...
because... even if i "cant get any"...
any is just as plenty...
i shared a moment in a supermarket with
a guy who was buying...
wine and bread... honest to god...
he was buying wine and bread...
i missed the last supper and that magic
of a philosopher's stone of:
the wood of all metaphors...
that great driftwood of history...
the postage stamp of contemp. african
get-togethers in europe...

                       an eric dolphy or an bobby hutcherson
on cymbals... "vibes"
   ("vibes" could also be made synonymous
with a prog rock artifact...
a Hammond E-112 ***** too)
                            could work...
the cymbals or the xylophone or whatever
that elevator muzak attache is...
could work... in synch...
on something like grant green's idle moments...
as forrest gump would have said it...
the gi(t)ar is in symbiosis...
but please no horns no sax...
well... sax ever so slightly...
just below the drums...
most certainly beneath the bass...
keep it clean with the guitar and the piano...
only then... some sort of equilibrium...

otherwise what's 120 quid?
something my hands can touch and the sort
of money that i would never spend:
how much vinyl can a man eat
before he realises... this **** isn't liquorice!
from pocket to pocket...
from hand to hand...
                  i never gave that money 10 quid
short with a box of chocolates or a bunch
of flowers... so i guess...
that's money best swept under the rug
of daily needs... flowers wither and chocolate...
eh... chocolate...
                                it's not the thought
of liquorice when playing a vinyl record on
a gramophone... anise amber anise amber anise...
cinnamon and...
and and and and... the raven hair of
bulgarian prostitutes... fingertips...
if only the tongue could read braille...

       i'd ensure that if i went into a brothel
i'd spend a good ten minutes moving my fingertips
ferocious against a brickwall...
some might say: i wanted to experience
of feeling oysters under my fingertips...
when caressing the otherwise sandpaper of skin...
and time...

beer becomes an elevated circumstance
of some leftover whiskey...
and this... cameo cinema of my memories...
yes... rubbing my fingertips against
a brickwall... before walking into
a brothel...

- the germans have been lying!
they have another "secret" letter in their arsenal...
although they will not outright admit it!
perhaps the ß (eszet) is interchangeable in
younger brother ßaß (saxon) english...
surprise: surpriße!
                
             most of the arabs flock around
the nationalflaggehandelsflaggeparteiflagge...

perhaps there was an S-to-Z-to-S-to-Z
interchange bound to the ß...
aber...

wo alle straßen enden...
                     hört unser weg nicht auf,
wohin wir uns auch wenden,
die Zeit nimmt ihren lauf...

         yep... that german "z"... which is more like...
a "russian" c... a ****** c... most certainly
a wet snare sizzle of... a ... Ц...

   das herц, verbrannt...
                   im schmerц, verbannt...
so цiehen wir verloren durch gas graue
niemandsland.

              then again... that all depends which german
dialect you're talking about...
and that russian spy ц is most certainly missing
upon a: schwarzdeutsche
             richtigerdepflugdeutsche rendition of:
zu...

and that's the compensation dynamic...
i'll reach into the zenith of jazz...
but come into the nadir of german army songs...
i'll squeeze a horn but then
come and drop a stone dipped in honey
into a hornet's nest...

              perhaps i haven't been the best
tourist when it comes to the concentration camps...
but i have visited the mass graves of the germans
from the first world war around Ypres...
and i have been to the graveyards of the allies...
a sparrow or a robin always seems
to sing each individual german soldier's lot
in the graveyards of the sleeping en masse...
the silence always breaks...
seeing how they were piled up...
                 compared to the individual graves
of the allied soldiers?
it's almost like going to see the end product
of the contracetion camps...
              a heap of bodies readied for a mass grave...

let's not riddle a liking for folk songs into this...
folk songs are non-negotiable details in all of this...
a black man can call another black man
a n-----... well...
i might as well call another white man...
carelessly and with ridicule... a ****...
sorry... hehe... "oops"... a... naцi...
                                                                a нaци...
         beware the german Z given the ß und Ц...
eh... don't mind the S... it's hardly a caron (š) S...
you'd need to compound -sch- into the whole affair...
and still the east germans would write
ich... их... but... somehow make-out to say:
isch... iś... which is not a caron (š) S...
nor saшa...            it's... somewhere "in between":
                                 š   ś
                     via rammstein's ich will...
well... it's not french... so there's no grave S
          to compliment... so... das ist das... yener...
                    
so much for a friday night...
              before the altar of Moloch...
and his resurrection... busy body demon deity
of the abortion clinic...
and these are the old gods united
under the single Mammon facade of the semites...
Moloch is alive and well...
perhaps the babies sacrificed to him
are not still-born or otherwise...
perhaps the strain of the argument from
the conservatives whispered a retort for me
to utter: that each ******* if a microcosm
genocide... i will not utter the name...
call it an elevated sort of superstition...
or rather... i don't have to say the racial
slur... because... i'm pandering to
                                   porцellanmenшen -
that's two russians "spies" in already...
                                       regarding the иɐzᴉ...
at what point...
                                     under what authority...
it's a **** good metaphor though...
"metaphor"...
          that Moloch is awake once more...
as a deity in his own right -
no longer the "fallen angel" in the pantheon
of semitic gods brought to heed...
before ha-shem.

would you like to make love tonight
underneath the coolness of blue city lights
in the warmness of this dark room
where i might only kiss
you
till our lips can’t tell the kisser from the kiss
& our tounges entangle to become one
like the time all we did was kiss
here
we could begin to make love

would you like to make love tonight
while dizzy’s band plays the blues
you could hear it
& play  a melody of your own
with me in the warmness of this dark room
where i wanna make love
with you

darling give me your hands
place yourself inside my melody
till music flows from it
like running water & i
drown you with tunes so sweet
you sing my name
acapella

tell me
would you like to make love tonight
by the flicker of a candlelit flame
& have our shadows dance together
across the room
until we come
faster than the A train back to harlem

you know
ellington never played music
as sweet as mine

can you hear it?
wouldn’t you like to?
i’m playing it for you.

You heard duke Ellington on the radio
Eight years old
Just another example
Of a childhood event
Changing a person
Who changes the world

And your music was groovy
It was familiar, yet experimental
Precise
Yet completely different
Your music informs you
As you form your sound

Precise
But emotional
And driven by feeling

And all the times
And all the tunes
And all the beautiful art
Still my favorite thing about you

The angry man of jazz
Taught me how to train a cat
To use a toilet
True story

He keeps a flute in his boot.
Plays it for strangers, listens for little crashes of loot.
Sleeps on a stone bench near the ocean.
Sometimes he gets drunk , hollers, causes commotion.
Some days he ***** about
in his loose oversized castoff suit
looking as if he might fly
or cry when the sun shines blindness
across his two *** eyes.
Passersby know not
that once he brought the house down
with Ellington in a jazzy joint in Harlem town.

the scream of a siren
painted upon the night

a woman's laughter
in brilliant blue & white

an angry reddish brawl
trapped in an unseen alley

this the Jackson ******* of
the sound of a Saturday night

here in my room
Duke Ellington is

taking the A Train.

Well there she goes again she's gunnin' her mouth again
I ain't really listenin
No not right now

Well there he goes again, Duke Ellington, got a strange feeling again
Rain puddles glistenin
Oh yes right now

I feel myself a-peekin up over some wall

                                                                   Of stucco

I's strainin' my eyes but I can't see it all

The rain falls, she tells me where it hurts and I remember to love her just
           before my love deserts

I'm almost on empty

Gas up we're movin on but now we're on a different song
Just as sad, little sweeter

‘Do you listen to music when you write?’

Duke Ellington ‘In a Sentimental Mood’ is a fave. Sets tone. Brings mood. Love some John Coltrane intermittent weaving throughout. That sax is like rain on Mars.

Miles Davis ‘Flamenco Sketches’
But what about Blue in Green? I like it but Flamenco sets the table. Give me Cafe Bustelo, French Vanilla, and this one and I’ll write your will out for you where everyone cries...

Moby ‘God Moving Over the Face of Water’ Deep, penetrative thoughts conquer over this. The piano makes me fly, brings me back down and sets me like a feather.

My Morning Jacket ‘Only Memories Remain’ Wrote a whole book to this. The Wurlitzer and then the guitar solo at the end is stupefying to me.
And how do I feel when I listen to these pieces?
What I see is what I write down:
My Father’s Hands
My Mother’s *******
Footprints in the snow
Bruises upon my soul
Forests on fire
Sunsets on Mars
Her naked woman curves
Highways into the night
Lava flows
***** feet
My daughter being born
Sunrise coming up from an ocean
Moss growing over everything
Brownstones in Greenwich Village
Empty wine bottles

The music helps
Amplifies
Energizes

What music do you listen to when you write?

WE LOVE YOU MADLY

the scream of a siren
painted upon the night

a woman's laughter
in brilliant blue & white

an angry reddish brawl
trapped in an unseen alley

this the Jackson ******* of
the sound of a Saturday night

here in my room
Duke Ellington is

taking the A Train.

I am streaming some old Jazz (Mingus, Duke Ellington, The Modem Jazz Quartet) 
From my phone via bluetooth
As I drive
To the store
When my brother Dave's ghost
chimes in:
It would sound better coming from a long play stereophonic record, he says. 

No doubt, I tell him
Surprised that I am not surprised
That he is in the car with me. 

We call it vinyl now, I tell him
I think he nods
Though I can't really see him. 

You know, he says, it is all about the intervals and the timing.
We listen for a while, then he says :
Something nobody really understood about me 
Is that I was a jazz improvisation
While I was alive.

I think, this makes no rational sense at all. 
Though I don't say it outloud, my brother responds:
No, it isn't about being rational
It's about the intervals and timing. 

And suddenly I understand him in a way I didn't when he was alive. 
I love you, I say
But he's gone
Jumped to an unexpected note.

Unexpected 
But perfect.

WE LOVE YOU MADLY

the scream of a siren
painted upon the night

a woman's laughter
in brilliant blue & white

an angry reddish brawl
trapped in an unseen alley

this the Jackson ******* of
the sound of a Saturday night

here in my room
Duke Ellington is

taking the A Train.

I looked at my skin.
I embraced it.
Proud to be within it.
Very proud to wear it.

It doesn't offend me.
As it does them.
And as it does they can't give a good logical reason.

I look at my skin.
I enjoy it.
Not once has I explored it.
I know my greatness.

Obama, Martin, Malcolm
Barbara Jordan, Shirley Chilsom, Michelle has represented us pretty well.

Oh, I'm not shocked that they steal from us.
We just an amazing and creative race.
George Wahington Carver, W. E. Dubois, and Madame C J Walker left an amazing legacy.

Then there is Charles Drew and military Black Panthers squad.
Yes, when history books deny us.
We have others to uplift us.

Oh, I look at my skin and not shocked.
Sarah Vaugh, Count Basie, Duke Ellington, and Lena Horne.
Hell, even the mobsters needed us.
Just Too much talent to ignore.

Heck, I just look at my skin and realize the truth.
To be proud of yourself means be proud of your race.
We have done things others can't accept.

And we are the only race in existence many try to be.
We had the greatest called Muhammad Ali.

classic.fm Fridays: Jonathan Woss' movie hour, or two... then Sue Perkins ******* off to Antarctica... my favorite female comedian: but only if she doesn't do stand-up but does classical music d.j'ing.

Of the skies above
and of the skies below...
I'm waiting for the winter
and the glistening sparkle
of stars in the cold
of concrete in captured
fright of water immobilised
by... "something"...
until then...
         classic.fm on a Friday
night... movie night music...
'ans Zimmer...
t"omas Newmann...
John Williams...
    ever so strangely how:
classical music composed
for a movie resonates more...
than anything orchestral...
no I don't mean the recluse
genius of taming an instrument
to it's full pontentiality:
Chopin's nocturnes...
or that that's Bach...
               but like jazz isn't really jazz
when it comes to jazz-orchestration
of... what's his name...
no, not Barrinton Levy:
murderer... murderer...
not jazz as Duke Ellington bonanza...
the shady primo -esque
reminiscence of a rock band
the quintet of:
drums, bass, piano, trumpet,
sax...
Friday night is all about
that Red Hot Chilli Pepper
song: throw away your television.

p.s. and still shy of at least
two hours to eat my Thai red
curry
while finishing all the 9h of
a Polish t.v. about
a Slovakian mountain robber:
Janosik...
           or the movie adaptation
of the original sci fi:
Jerzy Żuławski...
    on the silver globe...
***-mission: Juliusz Machulski...
dear oligarchs:
this isn't a Hebrew diaspora...
what the **** are you throwing
at me, this these people so
drone like: unrelatable
in the minimum wage bracket
of simply happy earning enough
to eat a sugar inflected
hum-of-chew-to-a-hamburger!