JAZZ CAT
a true jazz cat can live in the moment
able to duly see
the sweet mauve haze of an unadorned blessing
the fruit of an angel tree
and when he plays he plays like a tiger
a jungle cat slinking wild
and when he plays he moves like a cobra
and laughs like a wayward child
there is no now just a moving abstraction
there is no then or when
there is an is, unfolding in rhythm
in which we are born again
it’s true that some hearts chime to the music
it’s true that some cats know
and play the pulse of divine recreation
(as above. . . so below)
The Invention of the Saxophone
i don’t know who invented this
reflexive question mark of an instrument
but i think it was a good thing
for it’s great to look at,
with fat keys like frog eyes
and a big bell like royal jelly
you could keep flowers in there if you wanted to,
extra socks
or even a clock
Snakes kink too
and this sound is snakey
purply mauve as the deepest bruise
and raunchy
as a man in love
smoked as some cat of the night
disappearing over a fence
it makes leaps
(but only because it has to)
There is no
morning saxophone
this is a sound that
pulls the shades down
a hangover
howl
fading to twilight
or the blackmost
belly button
of the night
Few can wrap their lips around
this gooseneck
without some harm coming to them
for this is an instrument
with a long history of
hollowing out
all but the most hardy
Bird flew into a pane
of glass and was
smashed
we don’t know why it does this to people
(maybe it was mad at him
for taking it all to such extremes)
but how could you blow this thing
halfway
i ask you
how could you rear back
in some great pained whiplash of the spine
without a sense of
terrible commitment
i never much cared for
saxophones myself
until i heard one blown correctly at last
jazz is a genre i will never understand
but perhaps that’s good
for like the priesthood, one must enter into it
without question
reservation
or doubt
