LO2

I tend to see you active,
smiling,
for the most part.

Today, a slow Sunday,
amidst procrastination and air conditioning,
you sleep.

Skin and pink cloth on a backdrop of comforting darkness,
punctuated by an unexpected frown,
an uncommon look from you.

Is it the angle at which you lay on the couch?
The expected result of calmed muscles in a particular position?
Or are there other things,
released,
small sadness and hidden disappointments,
working their way out
like fledgeling birds, leaving the nest,
quiet exits,
with a near silent flapping of wings,
and the hope they don't wake you.

If it's worth owning, It's already been sold.
no batteries included, none needed.
all mechanical barriers and gears,
whirring and spinning in an offbeat syncopation,
the correct time? close enough.
missed cues that bring to mind Jazz after too many drinks,
the skewed appeal of rock and roll,
what separates it from the metronome,
the circuit board,
music made livlier by human error,
lack of skill justified by the need to breathe.
your head bobs, your feet count
1,2,3,4,1,2,3,4
snare bringing back memories of kindergarden,
trumpet heralding the fond memory of a Charlie Brown Christmas,
Woodstock and muddled adult voices.
Airborne doghouses and the most heartfelt monologue ever recorded.
you see the appeal of the location,
almost wish for some smack,
an apple and a revolver,
and the ability to smoke a cigarette indoors.
less light, more smoke, nothing blended, nothing single serving,
small cups or no cups at all.
The wheeze and hiss of the only necessary metal machine,
doing battle with the bass, the sax, the trumpet,
the need for a double making the four a quintet.
all the better,
anything to help me with the wish it was earlier,
that I was further West,
that I could find myself in a fortunate conglomeration of souls
that could manage to encourage each other towards a unified artistic goal,
without falsehood,
without pretension,
without lies,
without intellectualism,
without condecension,
without all the elements that bring the gentle erosion of creative hopes,
the influence that makes things fall apart,
like jazz musicians,
after too many drinks,
searching for the way to end the song,
and not finding it.
keep playing boys,
just keep playing.

Note: I wrote this over the course of a single song this jazz combo was playing. More of an experiment than a true finished work. Haven't been writing as much as I want to lately, trying to jumpstart myself.

So beautiful that couple
in handsome black and red clothes
walking along the street
her arms folded, his in pockets cold...
Scarves loosely wrapped about white necks,

And in the subway car
a black man takes a black woman's hands,
and her eyes look far away
beyond the walls under the sea,

and his eyes concentrate on her hands
as glasses drop slightly down his nose
as she turns and smiles, as he looks up
at clay made whole,

and she takes her hands about his cheeks
makes a vase, and he smiles
as roses are put in his mouth and hair,

and her brown leather coat crumples
as she kisses him,
and his black windbreaker is crumpled
by her kiss,

And for two subway stops their kiss
moves a man to write
and get up in the morning
and sing an old song

to remember a woman in a dream
who held his hands
wearing ear rings of white moons,
in black hair open as a fan,

blowing honeyed wind about the room
in which they loved and loved,
as kingdoms came and went,
in which they loved and loved

as the black man and woman
left their embrace
to slowly get up to the door
by an old man in the window seat
into whose hands dropped two white moons.

via World of Poetry.