"sambas" poems
weathered fingertips in sensual crescendo
arouse blitzing keystrokes to commove
wild Js and Zeds, Ks and Is too.
harmony of the king's three-thousand acre jungle
swallowing the stormy orange cyclical stew
and tantamount to its feral cavities
thrushes whet jagged spinal bones to split
news of the no-rhythm, sambas of new religious canter
infiltrates the **** cavernous walls
This inner ear and greater sound
knew to find sanctuary here.
Lends its awesome craft to the next
And next, and next, and next;
beautiful unboxed melodies
new unused sweet single-reeds
threading that 20s centrifuge.
Saxophone. Incantations unfolding
Aloof in its ***** it unwraps
The veil of green, a costume of black coffees
Cigarette stained curtains exhumed to greet
Thick plumes of albicant sinewy smoke
At the heap of its glorious song
Uniting the funnel of eardom to consecrate
Bliss. Intrinsic and purple
An irrational knot of Portuguese drum
Met over by African toms and rattles
A glue imbued into those unmistakable
Chakras of this spell of mourning and reversed
Names of starlight girls and their other'd selves
These are the weapons of our new key strokes.
And upon the cortex it reveals this lift anew
Where death greeted me to intervene a place
Where sound and silence meet, and new strikes
Put my hands in halves. Pear-shaped birds pecking
At the joints, and where bowl-shaped tones bring
Their impeccable limbs to atone with auburn and cerise soils
Beneath the high ridges of doom- the empowering backspace
Does not exist, only new nothingnesses and their hooves
Splashing into each step into the next, and the next, and the next,
And the next.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 7:10 AM UTC
they ride along
the mountain road:
kashgar and
the heron girl
crane their necks
to the shaman's haze,
ploughing out
the humpback’s trail.
with a slow hup-hup, up
down powder trot,
a boombox laugh
and a slapstrum knot;
walking the lake,
talking of the bay,
savor the night:
hear what they say!
bronze battalions
beat the prince,
hide the sambas
inside of their hats;
a summer tent,
a sterling pearl:
kashgar and
the heron girl.
they rode along
the mountain road,
past water cranes
and lily haze;
roaming slow
the worldshell snail,
ploughing out
the humpback trail.
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 10:19 PM UTC
ponds and rivers
frame masterpieces
the watery mirrors
of inverse images
a fluid movement
of inexact things
dependant derivations
of the swirling world
cloud billows
leafy trees
sun dance
shimmer
sambas with
water people
tipping along
the wet stones
flowing by
to effortless
destinations
attired in
wondrous
watercolors
birds of paradise
loft along the
gentle eddies
seeking beauty
of transcendent
touch points
in gracious
multicolored
micro slices
of tiny time
revealing the
hidden
unemerged
reflections
going
fathoms
deep...
Thelonious Monk /Sonny Rollins:
Reflections
Oakland
10/25/13
jbm
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
The Puerto Rican
Senorita in
The room above as
A cute *** Henry
Thinks, as he watches
Her sway upstairs to
Her room, giving him
A smile and turn of
Her dark haired head. She
Has no marido
Yet, although he’s seen
The occasional
Man walk up to her
Room some nights. He hears
Her walk across the
Floor above, sometimes
She dances to the
Music from her cheap
Hifi, tangos or
Sambas that Latin
American stuff
He’s heard before, and
He imagines her
Dancing, her short skirt
Rising, her lovely
Legs showing, her cute
*** moving from side
To side, and he can
Only imagine
What else she does when
The men come and the
Dancing stops and the
Music falls silent.
Then he just lies there
On his bed smoking,
Watching the smoke rise
And a phantom of
The senorita
Dancing naked there
Before tired eyes.
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 10:09 AM UTC