"saxophones" poems
Two fine films: The Lost City and Blood Diamond.
I joined Blood Diamond during a village massacre
and said to my wife A gun in every home.
Those devils would think twice
before razing the village and seizing the boys.
A well-regulated militia.
The local militia the most interesting moment
in a strong film with motive (economic, emotional), action (chases,
fights) and a **** sexless love story.
Use of violence by the local militia for a limited purpose: protect the
community, the young
from the janjaweed. The crop from the ****
Limited scope and defensive posture
but armed and coordinated, cooperative, the men (and the women)
side by side.
Warriors at the gate, you will not run, you will not bargain.
Just violence = limited scope, defensive posture.
Great music. Cuba, Africa.
The Lost City, when the communists tell the club owner under threat
of violence
No saxophones in the band. The saxophone!
Invented by a Belgian--Look what the Belgians are doing in the
Congo!
When the state's violence is turned against the citizenry
for non-violent acts.
This quiet neighborhood, July,
undergirded by violence, force. That's a given--
any farmer, custodian, EMT will tell you that.
Without just violence
Gandhi's scope, and King's, might be vanishingly limited,
negligible (but not non-existent)?
Regarding King
the matter is simple -- he was non-violent but dependent upon
federal force to counter the South's violence.
No doubt without the larger force, the non-violent would be
overwhelmed by southern violence.
Here, non-violence was a tactic, not an ethic.
Gandhi, however, had no violent partner to protect him from the
British. Or did he?
1. There was the potential violence of the population, which Gandhi
restrained but could release which the British feared, and
2. It was the restrained (limited scope) violence of the British that
allowed Gandhi to exist rather than be extinguished--this restraint
was a (British) cultural imperative (limited scope) as well as
emanating from Britain's view of India as a protectorate and
valued citizen of the United Kingdom (defensive posture).
What about violence or threat of violence to compel compliance with
community
as in mortgage foreclosure, driving without license, drug possession.
Perhaps it is necessary violence to maintain orderly commerce, the
common space, and preempt bad behaviors associated with
otherwise neutral, private acts.
The defensive posture is the common good; the limited scope is
forgoing deadly force.
But the citizen, too, must maintain a disciplined, armed non-violence,
in case the state (the janjaweed) engages in an unjust, autoimmune
violence.
Hence, a gun in every home.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 9:56 AM UTC
Lipstick cigarettes and the empty soul of modern rock n' roll
laid in ruin amongst my collection of black soul addictions and sultry benedictions.
MIDI saxophones and an ex-girlfriend on the telephone
directing me to find my home, to rebuild the comb, to banish the bartender and the Reverend ******
Alamo idiot stand and a neon Jesus
waving newcomers into the whitewashed port town known as "Cuba North".
At the Caged Gorilla, Linda, the waitress,
laughs through yellowed teeth, while my bloodshot eyes crawl up her red gums.
Binge'd and my brain keeps parallel with the ceiling fan
while a plain clothes cop tries to give me the reprimand for nostalgic mischiefs.
Handcuffed and looking for that old fiend, Freedom,
while Miranda spews on the back of my skull, slides down my shoulders, dots the cement.
Out the door and tourists with cameras looking for evil behind my irises,
but I can assure my handshakes feel the same, I'm front pew tame, and I blend with the parade.
Jan 12, 2012
Jan 12, 2012 at 7:13 PM UTC
THE BALLOONS hang on wires in the Marigold Gardens.
They spot their yellow and gold, they juggle their blue and red, they float their faces on the face of the sky.
Balloon face eaters sit by hundreds reading the eat cards, asking, "What shall we eat?"-and the waiters, "Have you ordered?" they are sixty ballon faces sifting white over the tuxedoes.
Poets, lawyers, ad men, mason contractors, smartalecks discussing "educated ********* here they put ***** into their balloon faces.
Here sit the heavy balloon face women lifting crimson lobsters into their crimson faces, lobsters out of Sargossa sea bottoms.
Here sits a man cross-examining a woman, "Where were you last night? What do you do with all your money? Who's buying your shoes now, anyhow?"
So they sit eating whitefish, two balloon faces swept on God's night wind.
And all the time the balloon spots on the wires, a little mile of festoons, they play their own silence play of film yellow and film gold, bubble blue and bubble red.
The wind crosses the town, the wind from the west side comes to the banks of marigolds boxed in the Marigold Gardens.
Night moths fly and fix their feet in the leaves and eat and are seen by the eaters.
The jazz outfit sweats and the drums and the saxophones reach for the ears of the eaters.
The chorus brought from Broadway works at the fun and the slouch of their shoulders, the kick of their ankles, reach for the eyes of the eaters.
These girls from Kokomo and Peoria, these hungry girls, since they are paid-for, let us look on and listen, let us get their number.
Why do I go again to the balloons on the wires, something for nothing, kin women of the half-moon, dream women?
And the half-moon swinging on the wind crossing the town-these two, the half-moon and the wind-this will be about all, this will be about all.
Eaters, go to it; your mazuma pays for it all; it's a knockout, a classy knockout-and payday always comes.
The moths in the marigolds will do for me, the half-moon, the wishing wind and the little mile of balloon spots on wires-this will be about all, this will be about all.
5.5k
Relatives of dead convicts
with debauched faces
and curly headed sailors
sing morose melodies
to the wail of saxophones
screaming strings
clashing cymbals
and the rattle of kettle drums.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 4:55 AM UTC
365Nectar #42 Don't Be Judging Me
Mon. November 4, 2013 8:26 P.M.
Volcanic velvet voices
vibrate the night
like thunder in the distance.
Booming Bassmen
blaze and burn
like ****** fire on a dark corner
in the dingiest part
of a rumbling city that never sleeps.
Sensual saxophones shudder
singing prayers of saints and sinners
while hot horns hypnotize
in perfect high compression swirls
tithing in the holy temple
of Jazzy Blues.
An alluring flutter
of silken harmonies.
A spine tingling spike
of don't be judging me jazz filled blues.
Scorching strings splinter
melancholy prison walls.
Stomping out a seismic sizzle
tempermental tones of
tickling trumpets
torch the menacing hurricanes of life
with warm rushes of excitement.
A spine tingling spike
of don't be judging me jazz filled blues.
"Take Me" Vixens tantalize
tucked up crowds
with thrilling tongue lashes
of silken harmonies.
A spine tingling spike
of don't be judging me jazz filled blues.
Full flaring flutes
gently ****** with inquisitive fingers
and stir a groan
like a religious ritual.
A playful teasing
floating enticingly
like a sly fox.
Such a succulent piercing
of moonstruck madness
pulsing mercilessly
leaving fields of fire
of a funky boogie menace
for a wild child.
An alluring flutter
of silken harmonies.
A spine tingling spike
of don't be judging me jazz filled blues.
Copyright ©2013 Don't Be Judging Me
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 11:52 AM UTC
Groovy brown skinned brothas
hip hop to the smooth jazzy
beats across the starlight scene,
exhilarating eyes light up
the uptown extravagance,
as they bust a move in the
drumbeating room, rotating
and vibrating, grinding and
bending, breathing in the
singing saxophones and
trombones.
Flashy lights shine bright
and vivid in crystal clears,
as young sweet caramel
girls sway to the high
hypnotizing sounds,
spinning hips lost in the
night, gliding on waves,
shaking in the serene
breeze like swinging trees,
soaring endlessly
across the rings of Saturn.
Heavy adrenaline rises
inside the upbeat and
sassy melanin sistas,
stomping stilettos,
show-stopping arms
and thighs harmonizing
to the midnight rhymes,
while hard bassline sounds
sifts inside various dimensions
of extreme delight.
Dec 27, 2018
Dec 27, 2018 at 10:49 AM UTC
DRUM on your drums, batter on your banjoes, sob on the long cool winding saxophones. Go to it, O jazzmen.
Sling your knuckles on the bottoms of the happy tin pans, let your trombones ooze, and go hushahusha-hush with the slippery sand-paper.
Moan like an autumn wind high in the lonesome tree-tops, moan soft like you wanted somebody terrible, cry like a racing car slipping away from a motorcycle cop, bang-bang! you jazzmen, bang altogether drums, traps, banjoes, horns, tin cans-make two people fight on the top of a stairway and scratch each other's eyes in a clinch tumbling down the stairs.
Can the rough stuff ... now a Mississippi steamboat pushes up the night river with a hoo-hoo-hoo-oo ... and the green lanterns calling to the high soft stars ... a red moon rides on the humps of the low river hills ... go to it, O jazzmen.
2.6k
Took me to the wrong end of the Mississippi
Blown north from the whistling blues
Dreamt that sweet sound of saxophones
Coloring St. Claude Avenue
Banana leaves melted into evergreens
Where the swamps finally ran cold
Through the mountain ranges of the lakes, and banjos of the plains
Where the countryside grew quiet and old
I grew up on the wrong end of the Mississippi
But now I’m taking that southbound train
Oh honey don’t ask me how I’ve been
It’s a restless, lonesome pain
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 1:35 PM UTC
On a grey asphalt midwest road
lay a terrible place to weep and moan..
where white ***** rain trickles low
on poison ivies and blurry saxophones..
..with unified yellow lights that neither blink nor stare
unending love
the throbbing blue road
and metal statues whose souls lay bare.
The silent night gathered all
even my brown pain
and the terrible fall
what remained was none-so-less
threshed and withered like those leaves of green..
..empty thoughts, silent stills,
and wanderlings, with dreamy quills.
Broken i lay, with those captured skies..
flashes of lightning
empty gazes and embittered souls
painful verses of a poets play
are those terrible blue dreams, they say.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 6:22 PM UTC
Vibes caught
static between
snares
hips swinging
searching for music
that played their truth.
The bass line
wasn’t just music
it was breath
pulling ribs apart
to let
the rhythm in
Fingers slid down
necks like frets
pressing
into chords
that hummed notes
down thighs
in time
Wanting
too blow
saxophones
Spitting all over
the reed
Jazz
isn’t something
you hear
it’s something
that happens
to you
cymbal crashed
piano keys
Play confessions
no hymn
would dare too
black and white blending
spilled burbon over
smoke-stained wood
Feet tapping
out codes no one
else could decipher
syncopated riff
breaking patterns
breaking rules
The off beat
gospel you
couldn’t write down.
The room
swayed with them
walls leaning in
leaning closer
to the crescendo
the saxophone
came in
it was a third hand
tracing lines
down spines
nobody dared
to blow before.
This is jazz:
argument
turned
foreplay
rough pull
dissonance
before harmony
slips in
like a satin sheets
you weren’t ready for.
Hands hit bodies
like drumsticks
slap rolling
inhale percussion
moaning muted horn solo
They weren’t just
feeling the music;
they were
becoming it
beating out solos
on each other’s skin.
The sweat smelled
like vinyl records
warm grooves
pressed
into the air
spinning
slow spins
catching sparks
needle skating over scars
was a minor chord
that somehow
still felt major.
learning
how to recognize itself.
Passion spilling out
her mouth
scotch over his
mahogany wood
The rimshot
of her sigh
Improvision
improvisation
of his kiss
Scatting sound
echoing
from lips
His horn
hit her high note
one that split
the room in half
she leaned closer
saying
“Do you hear that?”
But he wasn’t listening
to the music anymore.
He was listening
to her pulse
that slick
heartbeat drumming
solo against
his wrist.
This is what
jazz does
You don’t
just play
It consumes.
becomes the air
the walls
sweat
the skin
It’s the music
you don’t hear
but feel
right there
in the space
where your ribs
can’t hold
the notes.
Jazz
doesn’t end
it just fades
into the background
waiting for you
to join again
Nov 25, 2024
Nov 25, 2024 at 7:13 AM UTC
Take the moral law and make a nave of it
And from the nave build haunted heaven. Thus,
The conscience is converted into palms,
Like windy citherns hankering for hymns.
We agree in principle. That's clear. But take
The opposing law and make a peristyle,
And from the peristyle project a masque
Beyond the planets. Thus, our bawdiness,
Unpurged by epitaph, indulged at last,
Is equally converted into palms,
Squiggling like saxophones. And palm for palm,
Madame, we are where we began. Allow,
Therefore, that in the planetary scene
Your disaffected flagellants, well-stuffed,
Smacking their muzzy bellies in parade,
Proud of such novelties of the sublime,
Such tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk,
May, merely may, madame, whip from themselves
A jovial hullabaloo among the spheres.
This will make widows wince. But fictive things
Wink as they will. Wink most when widows wince.
2.1k
Last night I went to a jazz concert
and I bought an eight dollar jar of cocktail nuts
during intermission
from which I only ate
the few wasabi peas I managed to pick out
in the dim of the theater.
I thought about you
and then my thoughts were interrupted
by trumpets and saxophones,
and I wished it could always be that easy.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC
The audience, silent, took a breath in unison
Included in the orchestra was every instrument imaginable
Banhus and Gadulkas played folk and polkas
The brutish brass, bodyguards and protectors of stringed melodies
Included in the orchestra was every instrument imaginable
A concert harp, plucked by fingers long, smooth and sharp
The brutish brass, bodyguards and protectors of the woodwind class
Saxophones provided a melancholy lilt, the timp was traditionally built
A concert harp, stroked by running fingers, smooth and sharp
Every sharp and flat note was passed through the throaty reeds of oboes
Saxophones reminiscent of ‘jive’, the timp in its size had nowhere to hide
This exhibition of musical traditions played late into evening with no intermissions
Every sharp and flat note accounted for, motifs carried whispers of folklore
Banhus and Gadulkas, swapped stories with bassoons and bagpipes
The exhibition had finished, piano keys rested, every note has its operatic death
The audience, silent, took a breath in unison
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 8:56 PM UTC
indigo dusk spreads across
inexhaustible country sky
torn wet clouds stretched blue at twilight
a big-chested wind comes howling off the lake
dissecting our immortal kiss
as the pink sun meets her planet-doom
leaking on my balcony like a falling curtain
blessed with an affinity for moonlight
lingering drinking pale wine
we took baths in lukewarm vanity
she is a long legged sorceress smoking a cigarette
half awake because i've got the covers again
goose bumps crowd onto her little bare *******
dewy legs sliding among mine
rousing my bones and heart alert
as the bright sun dances silent
like a new carnation dragged from bed
bringing a giant unscrambled sunrise
across my section of heaven's blue sea
but is mercifully eclipsed by the cream-skinned
breast of a purified failed angel
exploring the feather-soft mountain of my body
we drank cointreau in the early morning
against the collage of saxophones
expanding among criss-crossing body odors
and thin magic on my lipsticked neck
i'm gaining strength over my neuroses
all my fear and doubt disappears into joy
no longer huddled in paper misfortune
reintegrated with ecstasy
in the smoky labyrinth of her eyes
as her fingers light as dreams
draw complex patterns in the flesh
of my back and buttocks
like secrets written on wet paper
none of it was real before this moment
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 3:25 PM UTC
Recently
it seems
every time we talk
our cacophonous
voices don't sing.
The harmony's off--
lost it's charming ring.
The tye-dye mind's eye melody
is mellowing into a gray spring.
And I'm wondering why?
But...
I think I know.
Only asked cause
I was hopin' you might hum some other musical notes,
ones that won't turn this song into a black swan dive
forced to call the huntin' dogs to track
back to a time where you and I laughed freely.
But there's this feeling
that this is how your other he must have felt
while you and me were undoing our belts--
yelling & screaming
as my parents were sleeping
upstairs above--
we played each other like saxophones
to this grand Nirvana relaxed crescendo!
But as this poem progresses
the tempo stiffens--
your voice lessens--
as the harmony's off-key
and the melody's riff softens.
It's not hitting me hard like a gong-
feels like two people singing
different lyrics into the same microphone.
Someone with synesthesia can see
our colorful speech atrophy
instead of pirouetting in turquoise dreams.
If that sounds harsh,
sorry, that's the reality I perceive--
we don't want each other to leave,
But our avoidance of labeling
what we are also established what we weren't
and now this playful...thing? we had
feels like a breaking carafe as it hits the floor.
I want to continue writing you more poems and songs
but it's hard when the harmony's off-key
and losing it's charm.
This new lentando^ tempo's like a left arm going numb.
I want to keep composing
but it feels like water
instead of kerosine pouring
on the fire that was inspiring
as this mournful melody dilates throughout my being.
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 12:37 AM UTC
Where are
The ecstatic saxophones that
Slung forth swank slurs of
Beauty,
The *** *** ***
Bass lines,
The snaps and snares and the
Sweet rhythm of the Night?
Music had character
And minds followed, in following
Soared.
There were no glittery vampires,
No prepubescent
Brother boy bands.
Soulful crooners never
Warbled over Alejandro,
Or the boots with the fur, with the fur.
We wrote letters and shared thoughts and ideas
And convictions.
There was no need for the techno
Middleman
To wrap our
Real thoughts in LOLs
To make opening
Up to another
More efficient.
Mass media
Gluttony drowns
America till I strain and struggle
Only to barely stay afloat
In this sea of apathy.
But you won't buy and sell my soul.
I'm not going to
Be your
Consumptive,
Quiet,
Couldn't-care-less,
I won't get in the way,
And I won't raise my voice,
Good American,
2.5 children,
Christian,
Conserva-libera-publi-crat,
Self-centered, Illiterate, Ignorant
Sheep
Only to follow the power.
**** no,
I'm mad as hell;
I want to leave the next generation
A world where
You can confess your
Love and be a man or
Love another man and have
Basic human rights, and it all
Starts in your
Mind
And your
Expression thereof.
It's the saccharine pop
Culture that has
Made free-thought unfashionable, a crime.
Art is
Revolution.
Hang
Up,
Log
Out,
Unplug and just look
At what you've let the
World become in
Letting yourself be
Little more than
A faceless source
Of merciless dollars.
Wrest free our
Culture from the
Calamitous and indifferent
Claws of rampant capitalism.
Express yourself or submit,
Stand up for a free America.
I will not be sold.
Oct 26, 2010
Oct 26, 2010 at 2:23 PM UTC
when I die
bury me in a cemetery in New Orleans
let the marching bands serenade this holy soil with beautiful trumpets and saxophones
let the sound flow into the earth so in the afterlife
I will have something to dance to,
Kiss those who weep
for they are in need of human and sometimes we forget that,
Offer yourself up to the sun
bask in that hot heat till sweat grazes your temple
stay there till the day is done and watch the moon sweep across the sky,
all the stars dance in the same rhythm.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 12:05 AM UTC
My childhood
was stubbing toes on pool railings
while trying not to drown
four foot tall, six feet under.
I sat by houseplants
on cold tile.
I lost my teeth to salt water taffy.
My parakeet was named
after a character on Full House
who had frizzy hair
and did not have her mama either.
One day,
she broke her beak.
It was my fault, I brought the
blood to my face as I would salve
to apologize
but it was far too late.
Daddy set her free while I slept.
I would rush to the
school supply aisle in Kroger
for pens and pencils
and bought Barbie dolls to glide
against the bayou’s surface.
Later, Katrina came
to sink everything I ever touched.
I thought
about the black men and their
saxophones downtown
how I wanted to replace the reeds
so badly
to hear New Orleans jazz
one final time before we moved.
The whole time
my sister was made of sage.
My brother slept on my Powerpuff
Girl sheets so often that
I kept my ******* in another room.
And I thought that
mothers came from fireplaces
because mine
hid her liquor in there sometimes.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 8:13 PM UTC
foreign tropes
plastic bags
paper napkins
altophone saxo tenor-horn
you make notes into words
i take your words and break them with
harsh breaths, bent knuckles
Sometimes lets press play again
lets play again, play again
eggin me on
you off into spaces with
tenor saxophones, horns
alternates and alsos
too-high-hopes
Apr 6, 2011
Apr 6, 2011 at 3:36 PM UTC
the spring after we both killed ourselves ,
I with a box cutter to the wrists and
you by **leaping off the roof
of your business partner’s fourteen-story office** , the crocuses
came up as usual , yellow tongues
like saxophones poking
through the earth .
when you arrived to pick me up ,
I answered
the door in my underwear since ghosts have no need
for either clothing or modesty .
you stood on your tiptoes
to kiss me , and when our mouths touched we felt
that old familiar wound
of self-pity .
at the tattoo parlor ,
so I could get the vertical scars
on my wrists inked back on in a
stronger color ,
the artist
would not let a dead couple through his door .
I pleaded with him that we would tell no one else ,
that we were not like the usual dead , not scary ,
not like zombies or ****** gang members , but to no avail .
at the café where we next stopped for raspberry lattes ,
the other patrons stared at us without inhibition ,
searched the air for the smell of rot .
there was none .
later , at home after the movie in which everyone left
to sit in another theater after we entered the doors ,
you gave me a bouquet of flowers that wilted in my hands
as soon as I touched them .
we were lovers
that had lived and died together , and our date ended as
they always had in life : with both of us trying not to cry
looking at the floor and wishing we could be more
than our shared self-hatred .
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 3:24 AM UTC
They spoke jazz
the words trickled from their tongues
like magic
they weren't rich
or famous
or connected
but they were **** good people
tongues like metronomes
they spoke in flashes of music
music music
not just sounds layered
atop other sounds
but soul and heart and fire and passions,
aching sadness
heartbroken longing
and the taste of danger
and ***
they were broke
scratching and hustling
for nickels and dimes
and forty ounces of freedom,
if they save up long enough
they can score a nickel bag
but they never do
and they still somehow get their hands on the stuff
malt liquor hangovers
wake them in the morning
and they smoke loosies
given to them by the over-privileged college kids
and their nice clothes
and undeserved smiles
they are the rat pack
hearts beating to the sounds of saxophones
and in my book
they're alright
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC
The change takes place when night time arrives,
Both loving it, and hating it, she never can decide,
The preparation is a ritual for her,
With silken bodied slipping into something barely there.
When the strides and sways of her hips coincide,
That's the time when the lucky punters are in for a ride,
Saxophones and cymbles and melodies flow,
She's entranced and submits how her erotica shows.
Her spirit is elsewhere, but her body will do,
As she grinds and she swings, and she tries to get through,
But then something kicks in, and the pleasure takes hold,
So she writhes and she touches herself, oh so bold.
They go crazy for her and the cash flies around,
Her excitement is mounting, making sexier sounds,
Faster and faster, her ****** comes quick,
So she uses her pole for her latest few tricks.
The plateau is encountered, and her body slows down,
Regaining her faculties, she dons her tame crown,
Opening her eyes, she gathers her surprises,
And heads home for the next chapter, when the moon next rises.
Feb 18, 2010
Feb 18, 2010 at 7:57 AM UTC
The rain calls softly from beyond the window
Fingers tapping on glass, persistent
Undaunted at the prospect of rejection
Saxophones serenade and trumpets sound
A color wheel exploding in my mind's eye
The rain was jazz for a moment
White lights create an art in their geometry
With shapes that don't exist
Except in the mind of the beholder
Smoke billows from between my lips
And this world of mine coagulates
It feels so right it almost stings.
Sep 7, 2010
Sep 7, 2010 at 12:22 PM UTC
sometimes when i look at you,
i hear you as a song.
the song that traps and haunts me,
when it is for you i long.
i hear you in each instrument,
you are the upright bass.
the jazzy riffs of saxophones
paint for me your face.
you are the wild, subtle drums,
the cello and the chimes.
you are the twinkling, dancing harp,
whose timbre simply shines.
i hear you in each symbol crash
and every kick drum beat.
you are the candied flutes,
with notes so sickly sweet.
and the more and more i listen,
the more i feel you here,
i can hold your hand in mine--
tremulous, pure, sincere.
but the longer we are kept apart,
the fainter your theme seems,
until the only place i hear it
is amongst my dusty dreams.
May 9, 2010
May 9, 2010 at 10:28 AM UTC
The muted state of this world
Keeps disturbing
The shivering noise of my thoughts
..Then I close my eyes..
THE SAXOPHONES OF THE WORLD
I heard them saxophones
In the air
I heard the only saxophone
In this whole world
With its tunes
Floating
High
I once heard the song of a saxophonist
Who died in the gutter,
However,
Something about painting the open seas
is so refreshing.
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 4:16 PM UTC