Often trees are conductors of the absolute, the sidereal cuss
eternity. the blow escapes the rehab and into the fire as known
but
lost coupons short of your toaster of existence. the mind needs consciousness,
consciousness does not need mind. Bon Voyage.. when the body revolts within itself, and parts battle
parts,
it's the last revolution, the last pogo, follow the few that
have wisdom, don't let it deceive with knowledge, the brass ring of annihilation, you'll be recognized by a chip, and maybe it will be all that's left..

Saturday, August 9, 2014

B.Z. Niditch


IMPROVISATION #7

When the rosin bathes
on your recovered violin
from the East Side
old stone pawnshop
among the lost musicians
and abstract expressionists
who always show up late
with their sweaty tickets,
here at your basement studio
your cadenzas start to fly
at Brahms’s Hungarian dances
getting ready
to play jazz in a trio tonight
with your ever-hitting
intonations spilling out
from minor keys
which keep showing up
in improvisation #7
surpassing a high “E ”
my right hand
in acrobatic form
reaching the bridge
in a slippery bow
with hairy roundness
in textural fury
my living notes float
on latitude’s air-waves
by the river’s shorelines
straight to Harlem’s clubs
where the Village patrons
go to their water- holes
in faded denim
to hear the horns and strings
blow them away.
Posted by at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)