POLYPHONY IS A KICK
in the meantime, the mean time, the out
between the down
and up, double time, double down
on underground sonic market forces, forces
of ear; forecast
shot, and 12 killed over any
given weekend. the coldest rhythms
on lake michigan. tell me
something good. inquisitively she all through the
night. and i just might as
well face it:
that low down shakin’
chill, that if you aint ever
had it, hope you never will blows in
some next, fresh, outside
intuit. 2 spirits
of 2 vehicular throats
at the intervals
for melodic layers of pursuit. entropic,
you say? all the angles
covered with transmission in
the pocket, notions
of gone. the far-flung
quartet. people, places
& things all over everywhere
and each other so freely,
because they know.
THE SOUND OF THINKING ABOUT DISTANT OBJECTS
makes a pretty splash somewhere edge
to edge of this is how i like to get down: jive
at the ear theater, the art
of air escaping from wire theory of strings,
provided the daring edge
of finger tips, of the keyboard ideation of
it's been so damn long since i've thought of anything
but you. on second thought: too damn long,
fingers pressed against the lips— shit’s ironic, staccato, where
the notes can find some rest,
maybe isn't what it sounds like. maybe,
a single bass note, octave, seventh interval
on the up and major seventh on the down: what happens
if i make it scream like i don't care,
sweat up and down, old ladies cursing
the other directions they go in— that’s so fantastic in a way the self is this a way.
monk, bud, and elmo this way
out the never open door, humming it
down bona fide back alleyway behind walker's tv repair shop.
boys run around the yard,
getting away with murder.
bud aint showin’ nobody shit, just listen.
telling them they don't have to play so loud.
MIDDLE CHORUSES: THAT NEW ORLEANS GONE OFF OF
tell the story off. he stepped on stage in warsaw after the interlude instantly a saxophone. called her birdie, cuz she had skinny legs. come in in a different time. the trombone was late but on time. dress it up baby, drizzle some sweet on it. they cuttin’ cards around aunt rosetta’s kitchen table waiting for high-waisted, double-knit high waters to come back (in town). i can show it to you better than i can explain it to you. every cat got his bone outside in the taxi he owe money, every dog that's a dog got his 4 o’clock second line to catch. the money folded from his hand to the other had to hurry up for it to be a funeral with music. the feeling gets the blessing all up and down high street. tell the story off, dress it up baby, drizzle some motif on it. fingers dance with valves. i start in the middle of a sentence and blow in both directions at the same time. do it again in the next verse, and people think you meant to. do it again in the verse after that, and people know you meant it.