so this is what no lessons gets me –
a melancholy jazz blues progression,
transgressions and mistakes.
the melody hidden in the missing bass line.
the absent drums beating paradiddles to variation.
a theme within a theme.
so don’t just walk on by –
this ain’t no street corner – i got no tin cup.
hum me your smile –
wildflowers in we minor.
the no lessons jazz jam song.
clean zippers with a syncopated beat
slow jazz at the laundromat.
zippers in the dryer keeping time.
syncopated beats going round and round.
drum solo — applause.
a duo — my foot tapping.
a trio — my voice moaning.
slow jazz piano on the radio.
a quartet — modern — as modern as it gets.
a sudden beep.
the dryer stops.
my voice quiet — the piano jazz gone to commercial.
stand — applaud.
fresh clean clothes warm in the basket.
free within structure — creative improv.
a soon to be
well dressed musician
fold — fold — fold
stick figure blues
the gas light from titan
glows beneath the toes
like situations of comedy
or a good time party
where only the right mortals
are invited and arrive on time
with dancing feet and torn shoes of conversation
cranking up the stereophonic
multi-dream machine and everyone —
and i do mean everyone — laughs
at the same time and gonzo
games of hatred fall into the
furnace buzz sing song.
i stand to go and someone
tells me over the noise
that my pants are sewn
to their soul and i look up
into the whole motionless reality
of star filled skies racing
eternity with beer-filled glasses
perched upon society’s nose
where – with a hastily focused telescope —
we peer into each others’ navels
searching for fuzz buzz loves,
cosmic dildo dreams and
slap hand fantasies in the night.
later – the clouds of conversation gather
and tomorrow dawns like
a broken skateboard drawn across
some obscure philosophical blackboard
where — crudely sketched — we still dance —
heroic stick figures reaching
through heaven’s stained glass morality
to grab the gas light of titan
and shake the blues from this town.