free jazz : coda

the last breath of the first song

            horns beat back the night alone

golden soul glow out the frosted window on soul food avenue

            spilling the song’s secrets in full view nude

singing the wind into stories of bitter truth   

coaxing tears from smiles and blues from a stone

            low bar lights reflected in red eyes 

harsh light captures a reflected face in high contrast 

            shadows muddy in a glass of still brown solace 

broken hearts litter the streets uptown. 

too proud to beg / too big to cry

she kills her drink / kissing it all goodbye

the next song saunters onstage as the house lights

            dim down to a smoky golden pool, bathing in

            gazes. she gives the horns a wink. and purrs  

“come on boys, lets make em wanna drink”

the saxophone and her dance a sad slow tango

            tragic tune of love untrue, betrayal blues

                        sorrow sung low in the key of heartache

             

7:15 AM, Wednesay January 4th

sunrise paints the sky

in parallel pastel pieces of

mosaic music unfolding slowly

cloud tapestry slowly woven glowing 

but first the black blues at the horizon

            night receding shade by shade          

almost without noticing, the blue is purpled 

            warmth infusing, rising from

            some thermal vent in the blue sky sea

            reflected pink light plays prismatic
across the undersides of white whales passing
 
through golden kelp rising from the seafloor horizon

            buttery dawn tendrils reaching

                        teasing the clouds colorful, fuschia cornflower

            patterned as only van gogh could see

                        some thousand waving contours weaving 

watercolor in the sky, a single moment wide 

a painting slowly swirling settling onto the day

                        sundrawn tracery blending pastel oil paints

            apollo’s horsetail brush leaving

            whorled trails in the cloud canvas

until his face rises to assess his work

            and in doing so, washes it all away

Free Jazz

start legato, pianissimo he blows the jazz

            starts low, building steam in the brass

                        saxophone steam engine first class

conductor in the spotlight

            passing the hours through a reed

wailing the time away. willing the sunset to stop

            for one note, at least, one soul, one crease

liquor bottles weep slowly behind the bar

            tears frozen, roasting on the first slow notes

bebop blizzard from ghostly lungs

            moments hung and hang and dangle

the trumpet enters. the blues remembers

            till the jazz blows its top riot

            till the spot hops sideways with rage 

jumping electric tin cats fire in the cradle no silver spoon

            jumping over the moon broomstick line in the sand

                        jumping the border through cellar doors and

dancing, dancing, dancing to forget the miles in the feet

swinging, swinging, swinging

                                                time measured in heartbeats

            passing shades of blue through the night

blowing the beat colors out through the swinging saloon doors

            blowing the feet in a hurricane seafloor typhoon

                        blowing the new moon jive monthly on Sundays

darkest night births brightest morning           

lightness brought from blackest mourning

            freedom blown through brass and pouring rain

            freed doom neon fire rain backlit halogen sins

            free to move into the fine moonless mists kiss

as the last notes blow, sustained long and low alto fortissimo

            winding down the watch legato

                        spooling the time back into instrument cases

                                    wrapping the groove down into silent spaces

             

calle del sangre, o el verquenza de los villalobos

I.
an old money Spanish family, dark past, dark present
mobsters, fascists, inquisitors. some claimed worse
and whispered of lasombra while the sun was high
in well lit cafes. the American villalobos…family
has officially renounced their old world kin, and
work within the highest echelons of new york
power brokers, politicians, police. nothing worse,
just an integral part of the way that the city works

but old money means old enemies. nothing dies
slower than debt. a slow, sure, merciless death
war drums that beat under burnt morrocan sun
pounding out history coming due. devils suit
the snakeskin mobster has been sent the bill
services rendered when time is killed and
graves are finally filled and ashes spilled

for those who cross the hashisim may escape
for days. or years. perhaps a whole lifetime
will they spend dying. for those who burnt Carthage
no death is slow enough. debts must be repaid
with interest. for those who burned at the stake
vengeance must be claimed. and if the two are the same?
this feud is older than the country the cowards
hide their sins in. sheeps clothing for mountain wolves.

old wars wear new masks and the devils dance as if
they'll die when the music stops. carnivalesque debauchery
a dance macabre where the first misstep marks
the last sunset they will never see. prepare
to enter the endgame, where nothing is as it seems

Departing Normalcy: Liftoff / Prologue

Flashing lights illuminating liftoff flights
     Ships dwindle to stars propulsion rocket in the night
          Slum chumps stare at the spaceport through screens
                    and steel fences. And the air screams, rent as
ascending angels tear the silken stratosphere
          galactic gamble each and every voyage
                              every vessel a missile
carrying the seeds of a mothers tears, a million fears and hopes
dreams pounded into the shapes of ancient sailing ships and set
astern. sternly surveying the whole of space. frames tense eager
     titanium birds strain to fly. built for the sky they languish inside
          only come alive when they reach escape velocity and

hang

          alive and lonely
                              slowly rotating
                                             in pure inky blackness
star splattered chaotic Pollack canvas
     insane universe of random chance where
a thousand million true tall tales have launched
               from the cracked tarmac of this spaceport.

          I grew up here, ya know
               this very planet, watching this very spaceport

although in my day, they didn’t have these electric fences.

          through the eyes of a slum child, the voice is enormous
wise, weary, worn with smoke and adventure and stardust
          a hero in a battered bomber jacket with
war insignia and a thousand patterned patches.

          in my day, you didn’t have to
                    (Snip, Snip, Snip, Snip)
               cut through a security fence, just to steal back my own...

well, lets just say it was a lot more fun back then

     and the voice slips through the perimeter like a noiseless ghost
               an illusion of cool that no one will ever believe
“like jah cowboi'd uv chatted up a durtey slum rat like ye, channi”

channi the slim slum chump slumps home to mom and pop, while
the voice slinks through the shadows, dancing in rhythm with the
security lights and camera sightlines avoiding all and
leaving no trace. to his own ship he steals, to quickly escape.

tracking collar clanks to the cracked tarmac.
          which soon heats and twists,
cracking in the heat from the retro rockets.
          rising on tongues of flame

ahem.

a creased voice crackles across the flight tower intercom.

okay suckers. you’ve had me impounded here for two weeks on
suspicion of trafficking in illegal goods.
well, i’ve got places to be and beings to see
and this state of stasis just isn’t suiting me.

sayonara, spacenerds.

and the Io points her painted prow skywards
     with a sonic boom she soars into the sunrise
               the port named normalacy dwindles to a memory while
                         the universe rises to fill the viewport

The Beautiful Game (Merry Christmas Dad)

sneakers squeak on slick hardwood reflecting
halogens overhead harsh glare. smell of sweat and
socks and shoes, soccer’s perfume on basketball courts
curly blond head floats amidst the D, bobs and weaves
in a crowded box, calls for the ball in to feet, twist, turns
away from traffic, watching, waiting for a
blindside run from the back, patience, just like in practice

curly blond bill Clinton hair tousled discretely
coach’s hands calloused by holding onto beliefs, by
a thousand hands shook. workingman’s coach teaching work
to a bunch of munchkin hooligans who just want
starbursts, or world cup, or anything but
drills and drills. drilling them in real skills
skulls filled with teamwork and respect

a thousand practices to teach a work ethic
that’s the tricky bit. taking tired little tykes
and making learning fun. class on the run
bonding exhausted little atoms into
a molecule of ferocious minnows. nibbling at
tidal waves until they grow up into
gators snapping on west side folks (7 to 7)

curly blond hair contained, headband and ponytail
eyes free to see the game. general overseeing the field
sweeper shouting commands, dominant, game in hand
playing his heart out for an audience of one. not concerned
with omission comes a mission, bitter fuel for teenage fission
belief stays strong, rooted in a rock in the stands, like feet
sunk in the sand. proving himself just because he can

transform practice lessons into a game changing man
a game can change a man, or a man can change a game
but at the end of the day its all the same. play for
love. of the game and what it means, of those who
taught you and the joy that it brings. no matter
the why or the where, when or the how
play the game for love or not at all

curly blond hair haloed on a Sunday morning, early
ball into space from the back. forward takes and attacks
overlap by the right back, laid off then quick, one two
true father son connection nearly telepathic so practiced
burst into the box, defense so static. one time sweeper
now scorer. assisted by a lifetime of lessons, dedication
dedicating every goal to the man who taught him to kick a ball.

A Home Cooked Meal (Merry Christmas Mom)

aromas waft seductively up the stairs
taking their time. luxuriating in the climb.
nose hairs tingle, thrilling in anticipation
firing neurons, overloading sensory input
exploding fireworks, raining confetti
the joy I feel when I smell mom’s spaghetti

run downstairs, just to watch her stir the sauce
anticipation so sweet, almost don’t want to eat
until I see the feast and gorge like a beast
don’t stop until I can’t see my feet.
I can’t help myself, its just too good
mom makes a meaner meal than poverty in the hood

I don’t know how she does it, maybe just practice
I have all her recipes, blueprints for ecstasy
but I can only build meals, not fountains of bliss
I think its because mom cooks with her heart
her cooking spiced with love and sweet memory
the taste of spaghetti a warm embrace of joie de vivre

Prelude: Departing Normalcy

As the rockets kicked back, back kicked the captains chair
worn faux leather boots upon the dash, a cloud of smoke
smugglers respite, the moments between here and there
the inbetween of speed, motionless moments of movement
oceans of space, bridged in an instant

a dingy display flickers, gives out. ding, ding, ding
a not so gentle slap reawakens the slacking LEDs.
lights don’t die easy around here. nothing does

nobody neither.

there are no stars
in the time between
      that infinite instant
                suspended sentence
                                    displaced dimension


a spaceship, sits? hovers?
      is cobbled together of a hundred hulks
      a million memories, lives patched into the hull
whispered confidences line the halls and

           hungry ghosts eye his skull

     the captains chair swivels to contemplate survival
          escape velocity achieved by a hair
               the space behind left scalded and bare
                    seared by searching lights fantastic
                         and inimical to all things material


          well, here goes nothing


               see ya later, space chumps...

Skull Atoll

canvas sails sigh in a stale breeze
slits in their sides smile ragged grins
dead men lie with daggers in their eyes

sun bleached skeletons hail the incoming tide
saluting those who ride the crimson dusk
darkening skies promise ill luck

fevered desires see salvation in hell’s hallowed halls
rowing headlong into an oceanic ossuary
a cove above a cathedral of catacombs

tattered sailors sought sanctuary here
shattered souls broken upon the rocks
bones scatter as they reach the dock

blood beaked gulls scatter, screaming
hurling insults they rise into the rusty sky
leaving their meal to its eternal rest

flesh hangs loosely on gaunt frames
a sepia trio scoured by scurvy and storm
washed ashore on rocks devoid of mercy

the gull cloud rises, white against a black noon sky
former oar slaves despair. paradise turned abattoir
sanctuary seen on the horizon. carpeted with death

corpses crunch beneath their steps
as the rain begins to lash the wrecks
seeking shelter slaves can never rest

lighting flash, thunder crash, a cleft ahead
dark grimace in the rocks, lined with jagged teeth
refuge glimpsed for fugitives at the end of hope

in a fugue they flee the unfurling hurricane
scattering warning signs in their wake they run
heedless of headless omens. headlong into the breach

the cave swallows them whole.
the sea claims its toll
the end credits roll

cigarette blues

sandbag eyelids heavy with dust
braced tight defenses stay squeezed shut
frustration hyperventilation desperation
clenched fists jaw taut teeth grind
the brick’s kiss bruises knuckles
nicotine hypodermic clamped lips
flaming injection of addictions prescription
inhale focused mind
exhale man on a mission
looking for a cold meal on a rainy night
insatiable appetite of the bottomless abyss

Go hit the bars, gut not looking for food
one scotch two scotch rotgut door
moving on implacable can’t stand still
dowsing for whiskey with dollars spent
trying to drown in his element
some kind of sick atonement
self martyrdom is an ugly mask
self flagellation is a thankless task
self destruction is good while it lasts

at the third fifth, unexpected breath caress
a tendril of smoke seduces fingertips and lips
twining, lounging, laying languorously lethal
dangerous dame wicked eyes and a smoky voice
drifting away spiraled, stretching, showing beckoning
incredible whorls worlds lost in the folds and curves
oblivion when the first taste hits the lips

ash is the bastard child of smoke
a broken home flicked into an ashtray
the coal remains, naked pain creeping closer
desperately draw down desire, lovers are liars
lying, alone together in the remains of the fire

a return to the form

two words
captured in
thick ink
brush strokes
coarse horse
hair dipped
dark oil
well drawn
deep stain
tip tracery
tattoo engraving
hearts blood
inked sins
battles soak
rich paper
black paths

dear pain
you will always
have my love
sincerely
the poet
the mute

imprisoned in the pen

Concrete Dreams

steam exhaled from a manhole mouth masks
a shady silhouette stalking the late night
london fog. feral eyes glint beneath hood
steel tension talons clasp suited blueblood heart
heat flushes a florid face like schoolgirl blushes
sweat stained Armani acquires a new taste. fear
taints the air. “who’s there” quavers impotently
lacking the power to pierce the satin night
the mist swirls, curling vapor now empty of eyes
disappeared like half remembered memories
slipping away in a miasma of excess and sex
lost in the creeping clouds, time inhales pain
the breath of a hundred thousand ghosts
rises from ancient streets. cloying, concealing
secrets and sins soon lost in the amnesiac mists
“twas nothing” brow wiped “jus drunk thassall”
and the suit stumbles home to privilege and power
the silhouette alone owns the witching hour
from the shadows he reemerges to regard
his prison home canvas companion
clack clack clack hiss.
stroke after stroke.
clack clack clack hiss
layer upon layer.
a black shadow in the London night, alive
carving, crafting, proving, demanding
recognition. redemption. rescue.
mosaic murals the blood of the streets
the suns first rays find the artist departed
returned to his grave, hidden in his barrow
waiting to haunt the city another night
left behind his mark on the street wall
a skull and crossbones, fifty feet tall
postmodern piracy, hijack legacy
subvert the very walls that hold you in
repaint the world with a grin

1:50AM Freestyle

eyes unite in dissatisfaction
   apathetic attraction
     we crave the contact
       crave the action


I stave off addiction with my pen,
hand on the 40 as i’m writing this hymn
singing my psalms off the palm of my hand,
this ink stained skin on demand
tattooing the world with my word of command, so here I stand
head haloed like an angel with dust,
I’m waiting on your table till you turn to rust
serving you I must but I’ll wait till I bust,
I’m the pie and you’re the crust
so get stuffed, pizza hut jabba ain’t got you butt,
your purebred and I’m a mutt
inbred ass bitch anemic and bleeding,
while I’m getting high as the ceiling
serving you these dishes I made with my dreams and my hopes
this bisque ain’t no joke, a soupy syrup of quotable notes
like lines on a boat tied so taut we can float
these knots that arise when I speak or I spoke
pretzel you up these ropes that I wrote
twizzlers of words like twisters of nerves
on your first day in court, the beat of your heart
you thought you were cool, thought you were smart
the taste of shame is tart and sour, lack of power
the hour has come to play your part to the hilt
the plot is written and the bits been cast
its all a play, you are doomed by your past
they’ll smile while you cry and never tire of pain
these snakes who inhabit the temples that gain
systems a sinkhole, survivors got priors
prey to the priests of porn and desire
only escape is to rise higher in fire
your dreams are drugs are fuel on your pyre
every coal will one day expire
entropy rules in the bog and the mire
life is a swamp this systems the flies
a disease sucking the life out with lies

1:45AM: black magic freestyle

brewed in the mill I ferment in the sun
mad town is the home to which I come
mad man of my age with no race to run
still waiting at the line for a starter’s gun


no track no path just wrath and wrack
stacks on fire in my eyes chaos attack
black magics at my back a heart I lack
riding dragon beats into battle never slack
spit fire like my steed this is all I need
a silver tongue and a beat that bleeds


I ain’t no knight in shining armor no hero here
I stole the princess and drank all the king’s beer
a marauding minstrel singing tales of woe
mad flow niagra down the falls I dove
hit the surface clean incision, aerial precision
perfect verbage how I make my living
clove the waters, cutting liquid with my name
slice so deep I’ll probably hit a vein
a rich run of some ridiculous form
diamond mine mind shining like the morn
the purest gold becomes the new norm
cheers! lets all have a beer, this one’s on the house
have no fear, until I get near and your knees shake
from ear to ear. smile on my face during an earthquake
I caused the tremors by sippin her milkshake


I’m a money makin banker whose just a lil stanker
monkey wrenchin but I’d rather hanky pank-her
I’m a dog, call me old yeller, my mouths the teller
and im screwin Cinderella she is the bella the best
and I’m the beast with the chest, no rest no stress
I’m a madtown magician making the dead rise
conjuror making the jury testify that cake is pie
that gravity’s a lie with these rhymes I fly
killin the dead before they rise from hearses
these funky verses murdering curses
mummies need they nurses the worst is
they call me an angel yet I’m thirstin for sin
spit truth all day but you can’t buy a win
these tall tales I spit with a devilish grin

kittycorner from the manneken pis

Duvel
poured into a fluted glass
        which flutes likes a tulip does 
              a large bulb, arabesque indented meniscus and a lip 
when you pour the beer right down along
       the lower curve out 
             of that rounded arabesque tulip glass 
                    it seems to be all foam 
                             at first.
       until 
 it rises golden 
        spouting up the curve, along the glass flower 
              hitting the bottom and swirling bubbles up 
                     rising fermented waterspout typhoon 
choppy waves of heady foam
       above golden ocean 

and then the bottle is empty and the glass
        perhaps half full of beer
              another half inch of foam 
                    to dew my moustache 

Athena

wide white wings whispering graceful wisdom
knowledge revealed in shadowed glances
golden eyes hold the secrets of the sun
burnished whirlpools swirling pinwheel trances

Hindu calm over Grecian still life
until flight breaks out, a snow owl flown
Athena flies in the shape of a shrike
raptor dance in the sky like leaves windblown

the chase ends atop a Doric column
gold discs meet brilliant gaze unblinking
contract signed in the silence so solemn
a new ally in the war for thinking

the marriage of wisdom to intellect
both Athena’s gift and her last regret

The Owl

moonlit forest glade, dappled forest bower
pink fingers entwine the blue robe of night
Apollo departs from Hades at this hour
horizon haloed, corona of light

beneath the leaves heavy with morning dew
Athena’s gaze regards the rise of day
races the sun to discover anew
that heady edge where light and shadow play

silent forest speaks beneath sandaled feet
an immortal eye regards her passage
owl gaze camera on Athena fleet
staring enrapt at her divine visage

she is the dawn’s herald divine heiress
brain born storm spawn insane seductress


 

dark kin

there’s a node on my soul
a tumor growing
dying to be whole

swelling seeking lesion leeching
clinging limpet cloning legionary cells
hiding leaking seeping weeping sores
a dark son rising inside the house
noir Apollo killing to be free from
sordid damp clinging swamp morass
moss and lichen fungus of sin
a rude fugue occludes my mood

dark kin born of nightly sin
growing at night, denied the light
gnawing at the door, sawing at the floor

try to fight but I can’t win. roar
of frustration as dark heart eludes
my grasp. slips through my fists
like smoke, wrapping around my
head like an unheard joke. my rage
feeds it. my pain needs it. my heart
sunders, a house divided, split level
one good earthquake away from ruin

I turn to face my reflection
sable manifestation, so well known
I am my dark kin. these sins are my own

embrace the surface of the mirror fiercely
cracks spread liquid ripples slip right
through. face to face with my visage made
of ebony and smoke, black flames smile
at some secret joke. that only I can hear
raven dark rushes over me in an instant
coated in coal breathing in soot. washed
clean, in dark sand. breathing in jet fumes

until my breath frosts my image
and only I look back at me. whole
knowing that my darkness is free

The Spectacle

is a three faced god called the other
we worship a jealous, hungry deity
impiety yields time in prison
the price of peace a silent tongue
mind numb and eyes stitched blind
invisible chains of smoky lies

the Man in the top hat ringmaster of lies
mediascape magician, conjuror for the other
audience attentive, rapt as he robs them blind
director of hyperlink circus search engine deity
speaking narcotic ambient gibberish tongues
actors playing the part of inmates in prison

a predatory grin watching a first day in prison
car salesman card shark killer swims in his lies
buying his way cold blooded snake for a tongue
the dollar on his collar marks out the other
priest of wall street tithes derivates to his deity
ignores every prophet, especially the blind

because if the lights didn’t have eyes to blind
the mind might escape from its visual prison
reject Nielsen piety where the TV is the deity
seductive goddess medusa media its all a lie
the screen has three faces each an other
voyeur staring into your living room with a forked tongue

power enforced through the mother tongue
to all alternative expressions the state is blind
the law is a realm ruled by the other
webs of steel lock the spirit in a dark prison
the third head of Cerberus sleeping lies
before the gate of justice’s hall, state deity

we buy in, pay our tithes to each face of the deity
we learn to speak their brazen hyperlink tongue
we accept and do not laugh at our own lies
we put out our eyes because they say we are blind
we plug ourselves in willingly to virtual prison
we crave connection as we alienate all others

dad's day

happy father's day from the paris airport.