"scatting" poems
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
No mad coffee shop
emotions make time real be-
tween jazz consciousness—
and the taste of sound howls for
soul on city gas
beaches that work naked like
*** like sleep; selling
ev'ry beatnik book in some
village.
Cats improvise god in barely-there clubs,
so cigarette smoke music can be cool forever.
The slide guitar, gutter trombones, the sax,
drums beat into submission, and
that voice scatting softly but strong
like hail in the scrap yard.
Be-bop skiddly bop do-wop skiddly bop.
Those lips crack off dryer barrels, blender bases,
alarm clock cord plugs rapping on the dumpster.
Those teeth chew out heels on pavement, police
tires on gravel driveways, the 8:15 bus' hiss hydraulics.
That soul.
His soul.
Is just that.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
i look up from my porcelain throne
in the fifth point cafe 42 minutes before the am’s fifth point
crown all whimsy-eyed and thrown
and see "the end is near"
so i think to myself
“me oh my oh golly geez
whatever
will i do in sight of these”
the ends
of the tp roll, that is
i look up from my pew
and there’s too much **** on the ceiling for one sheet
i stammer
then i realize, that’s not a ceiling,
that’s the sky
and that isn’t ****
those are scars
scatting stars
scattering
i stammer, “fuck-it”
what am i worried about, one last sheet
those chronos blast-holes
they’ll wipe themselves out
heat death infinity splitters and all that such sigh-fanciful nonsense
and so cheers, to life
the ends
to that which must overcome itself
to the earth, "good night-boons"
to the sky, "good night, moon"
i blink once more and
“sea-ya, night-time crouch-joys“
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 5:54 PM UTC
Now
Imagine, Jean du Scatmân
Xanax, give me more, man
Only the great scatting of John can give
Now you can live
Wearing tight-pants for the nation
**** irritation;
Stitch the jeans right
The kakis are white
How many kids did you ****
Entire stomachs, hungry still
Burp during the call
Elephantiasis, in the ball?
Save us from the reds
The **** hole is now Dead
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 3:40 PM UTC
wrestling with metaphorical hard-ons
for money for money for money
and it
as a mean to be mean
I am ****** in the long run
for wanting the in-between
I find my self stressing and scatting,
foaming
and spent
for a non-existent God
I cannot repent
I cannot repent
for selling my soul
to Satan (the great)
at eight years old
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 4:22 PM UTC
Wedged somewhere between the aughts
In the early morning hours
What is it you hear?
Scatting of a bird
Or the ticking of the clock
Down the hall
The sun filters in, golden
Through wooden slats
Bitter coffee waits to be made
Sweet with cream and
Drops of maple
Home is slow and silent now
In this residual world
Where you rise and work
Busy yourself with tasks
Waiting to pick up where
Life left off
Spring is still here,
Blooming and cool
Soothing to the nervous spirit
You can still step outdoors,
Breathe in jasmine and fresh air
Humming, meditating, on newness
For now you follow a different routine
Connect, find comfort in what is
Around with new appreciation
Embrace a slow morning
And an easy evening
Sunshine and small escapes
Apr 15, 2020
Apr 15, 2020 at 1:22 PM UTC
i feel like i'm dreaming
all the time
like somebody took it upon themselves to throw words at a wall
and turned what stuck into doo-wop scatting nonsense
which was then assembled gracelessly into a scathing neologism
something that scrambles into some semblance of an inner monologue and circles my tongue like treacle or a lab rat's ****
and if this is the scattered fantasy that my brain cells have scraped together from that primordial soup
then i don't think i want to wake up and see the aftermath of what feels like an eternal loop
but it's so scary to live life like a browning dulux colour swatch
businessperson's rolex watch
vignettes of vague consciousness vitally percieved through a time machine of moments and a swelling kind of grief grieved
for the moments inbetween that are lost and i'm pristine in an ocean of dark marine wondering where in my head my emotions and i have been
i can't ******* remember what i had for breakfast but i can recall that i feel like i've come last
in some kind of riddle where the clues are in a language i don't speak but could read with practice and anguish and the rhyming becoming more linear and fluent but i wish i could tell you what i said's congruent
to this fairytale drowsing that makes me feel alone and i think therefore i'm in a state to atone
i can't wake up
i'm going to throw up
similarly i think that i don't want to show up
tomorrow
i'll see you when i'm better or better yet never but it won't last forever
right?
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 5:23 PM UTC
Beyond meaning, and the Eternal Beauty breathes through me.
The difference between those who have found no meaning or care for no meaning, and I who go beyond meaning isn't important.
But is apparent in their manifest mindfulness.
How can an understanding raised and developed with words cognize what is beyond words?
How can attention directed from an infantile stage be made aware "beyond direction"?
As the very word 'beyond' gives meaning and direction.
Thought will ever meander in these webs if it is not given a sound as a vehicle to harmoniously dive beyond these intricacies.
Whoever gives you this sound will be in charge of your dive.
My sound is thus spontaneous.
Like scatting with soothing syllables.
A silent mind is defective because thoughts form, which is fine if you want to know your thoughts.
But since thoughts continue to arise, the mind naturally wishes to siphon them off to return to silence.
The siphoning itself creates a mental frequency.
...
"Selling" sounds to think is like moving thought from the ground to flying into outer space.
Any way to teach meditation is obsolete when the mind changes.
The teachings are relative though they speak of spiritual matters.
It is every person's unique journey, meditation is.
Thus, I come back to "just observe".
Feb 2, 2021
Feb 2, 2021 at 11:32 PM UTC
skit dop da *** *** waaaaw,
skit dit dot a wot dot waw.
sweeeee, zit zot zow.
a zit zot zow, bat baaaa.
stit saa, a woopdewa
zit za, a bop bop ba da BOWWW
(za, a doopdewa)
a bop bop ba da BOW, OW
May 30, 2019
May 30, 2019 at 2:45 AM UTC