ye are the salt of the ocean

A wishy-washy bedtime bebop story
drowns in the waves split by the breath of seagulls
The last radio DJ is leaving the island astride a jellyfish
I can’t decide whether a dearth of narration is fishy or not
I don’t even remember what that ocean looks like
Piles of wet books on the beaches untouched by fastidious winds
Uncut pineapples, helicopters digested by whales
Hours of listening to the clocks impaired by the salt

5 years

I am going to Chicago this week, to listen to the best
free jazz on our tiny planet, and have just discovered that
Fred Anderson has been dead there for 5 years,
his sax eaten by claustrophobic mice and bacteria.
I, a country bumpkin, was going to see skyscrapers,
but my friend who has already been there told me
just yesterday that they’re not skyscrapers at all,
just a bunch of ugly architectural inventions
built by renegade aliens from the outskirts of the Galaxy,
and the residents of those inventions sacrifice the mushrooms
that proliferate in the utility rooms and garages and the fish
that frolic in their bathtubs and toilet tanks to lazy Jesus,
and the city itself was named after the Bolshevist Cheka.

No way, but they say on the Web that Fred Anderson has been dead there for 5 years,
and his sax has been eaten by claustrophobic mice and bacteria.
For now, I guess, he is growing wings and looking for a half-decent trumpet.

coyotes

Instead of passing between worlds,
As in the good old days, coyotes now
Pass between women, rabbits,
Pieces of bacon, paper towels,
Cabbage leaves, pine needles, pages
Of books they cannot read,
Slanted eyes of angels,
Strands of fire and fog
And their own destinations.
The guy who used to play jazz standards to them
In the middle of nowhere, between
Withered blades of grass, is lying below,
Pockets full of greasy coins and crumpled bills
Of questionable origin.

{from the comments on nails}

pure nonsense

“The presumption that composers could learn something from jazz and rock is pure nonsense. Technically, these idioms are about 50 years behind the times. You will pardon me for adding that I consider myself pragmatically, academically and chronologically qualified to make that statement.” – Harry A. Feldman, Music Chairman, N.Y.C.H.S.

A classical music buff in all his glory, ignorant, arrogant and opinionated. To his credit, he said that in the late 60s.