jazz poets's topics - tribe.net

always accepting submissions

2007-03-24T15:55:08Z

always accepting submissions
why vandalism? is an online arts journal currently accepting submissions from visual artists and writers of poetry, fiction, and gonzo. We also publish original art/film reviews and essays.

www.whyvandalism.com/

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Some old stuff! Jean Cocteau & Jazz

2006-08-10T17:11:46Z

These unusual and excellent recordings feature the French poet, writer, artist and filmmaker Jean Cocteau reading his Dadaist poetry in French over the music of Dan Parrish's excellent jazz ensemble. Both performances "La Toison d'Or (The Golden Fleece) and "Les Voleurs d'Enfants" (The Child Snatchers) are taken from Cocteau's book "Opera." The recordings were made shortly before he made his classic first film, "Le Sang d'un Poete" (The Blood Of A Poet).

LISTEN: http://www.redhotjazz.com/cocteau.html

La Toison D'or
ThÈme: Holidays
(Jean Cocteau / Dan Parrish) 3-12-1929 Paris, France
http://www.redhotjazz.com/Songs/misc/LaToisonDor.ram

Les Voleurs D'enfants
ThÈme: Pouquoi J'ai Regrette)
(Jean Cocteau / Vance Lowry) 3-12-1929 Paris, France
http://www.redhotjazz.com/Songs/misc/LaToisonDor.ram

Jean Cocteau WIKI BIO:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean_Cocteau

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Call For Submissions & Review

2006-06-06T17:31:47Z

Calling all writers, angels, poets, gods, artists, photographers and souls that survive with a desire to tell the tale of their tears or laughter. Share your voices at http://NewYorkReview.Org. Also, keeping in mind that this is a newly launched online publication, we also welcome and encourage honest feedback and opinion. So please drop by http://NewYorkReview.Org, check us out and let us know what you think.

Peace

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sweat of the earth

2006-01-27T20:58:00Z

earthbride whistling
crystal winds
pistolwhipping
domebone to
receptive jelly

i am a stupid,
stupid man

but she
is patient

ferocious,
as such

green bud sparkles
larval harkers of
salad day gospel
chaos spells sigils
sizzling vigilant
in a real sense
glistening the
bugs in your brain
always listening

even in the
spacetime stagger

there is one
thing to hold you

she is firm and
she is brown

earthmother syzygy
is the basis for
male empathy our
sleepy seeds
sprouting in her
mouth singing
beautiful worlds
into existence and
i tell you this:

this is all foreplay
of the pineal gland

until i make endless
love in that soft hole

in the ground where
i shall be kept

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clockwork chartreuse

2006-01-08T02:15:09Z

the lizards
wept at dawn
for great
rainbows of
fire and
freedom

while the
Hunab Ku
kids played
in darkness
beneath the
leaves

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I like making connections with people.

2006-01-02T23:46:45Z

warmth and wizardry
heart sutra suitcase
laughter traveling
back after unraveling
backbones with
resonant tones of
AUM's vibrational
poem in scenes
daydreams uncombed
and locked the lion
of the lotus laughing
below us a beast's
best jazz swirling
fur lingering worlds
vulnerable real and
raw reaching into
bleeding hues of my
third eye's sea of
fiery irie golden
spires bleed seep
seething green things
as nature nurtures
the starsearchers
the heartsearchers
the Anahatha trips
singing sipping on
the gone, gone, so
far gone, all the
way gone to the
living, breathing
shores of another
soul, so let go
in the sun's glow
the beholder lies
in the eyes of
beauty's eternal
surprise

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Jazz/Surrealist Poet TED JOANS ~ an oft-forgotten element to the beats...

2005-12-27T21:36:15Z

TED JOANS ~ 1928-2003
*********************

Visit the section on Ted at my site:
http://mywebpage.netscape.com/twhproductions/page8.html
and a nice pic of me 'n Ted with some words from the EMPTY MIRRORS site's "TED JOANS LIVES TRIBUTE PAGES"
http://www.emptymirrorbooks.com/tedjoanslives-3.html

The anniversary of the passing of my friend Ted Joans came and went on April 25 2003, and I was too busy to remember it, but it's never too late to sing his praises.

For those not familiar with the man, he was a jazz/surrealist poet and trumpet player who spent his last days in Vancouver, BC with his partner, artist and photographer Laura Corsiglia. Ted was "the other black beat" as he called himself, reffering to Amiri Baraka being the one who most new. Ted says that it was a far enough stretch for America to recognize any black man as being important in the Beat Generation movement, and that they could only crown one of them.

He was the author of over 30 books of poetry, prose, and collage, including Black Pow-Wow, Beat Funky Jazz Poems, Afrodisia, Jazz is Our Religion, Double Trouble, Wow, and Teducation. Joans was the granddaddy of bringing jazz and "spoken word" together on the bandstand. When his former roommate, the great saxophonist Charlie Parker, passed away in 1955, it was Joans who began scrawling "Bird Lives!" all over Lower Manhattan.

Joans initially bypassed Europe and went straight to the Motherland in the early 1960s. Timbuktu became his home base, but he traveled around much of the world—a boho hobo and proud of it—doing poetry readings, writing jazz criticism, creating "happenings" as such events came to be called. He exchanged ideas with the leading figures of surrealism, hung out with Jack Kerouac, met an admiring Malcolm X, broke bread with Afro-Cuban painter Wifredo Lam and African American painter Bob Thompson, swapped bread tales with singer and hustler "Babs" Gonzalez.

Joans’s mantra was "Jazz is my religion and surrealism is my point of view." While Andre Breton acknowledged Joans as the only African-American surrealist he ever met, Joans’ main man was Langston Hughes.

When Ted was found dead in his apartment, I was the one o contact his daughter in the US and to speak with his partner Laura. I asked Laura what I could do to help, and she asked that I get people to write "TED LIVES!" on sidewalks all over the world in the same way Ted had done when his friend Charlie "Bird" Parker had passed. I passed it on and was surprised to find the request posted in every obituary from here to Timbuktu (literally). What made me even happier was to see the sentiment written on sidewalks around my city. I also hosted a tribute to Ted's life which brought poets, artists, musicians, and family members from around the globe to Vancouver.

Ted ~ you're are missed, man...TED LIVES!
************************************

Ted's Obit:
mywebpage.netscape.com/twhpro...ions/page8.html

for some of Ted's poetry, check out:

A SAX THANG
http://www.spress.de/beatland/reader/joans/poem1.htm

MY ACE OF SPADES
http://www.unix-ag.uni-kl.de/~moritz/Archive/malcolmx/tedjoans_myaceofspade.txt

OUR THANG ~ Ted & Laura's beautifully illustrated book of poetry
http://www.raintaxi.com/online/2002fall/joans.shtml

TEDUCATION
http://www.coffeehousepress.org/teducation.asp

and the VILLAGE VOICE article on his passing
http://www.villagevoice.com/news/0321,kelley,44192,5.html
**************************************************

When is hip, hep and hep is hip?

T.Paul a.k.a.
SwankHipster
http://www.t-paul.com/index2.html

posted in jazz poets - 1 reply

radiation sicknesss...

2005-11-30T09:28:03Z

this is the first thing i've written since coming back east in the beginning of oct. i just finished it n am going to post it without editing. it concerns depleted uranium n the poppy. i was thinking about all the poor addicts to opiated who are now probably being poisoned by radiation as well as the drugs...
its definitely different than what i usually post, so let me know what u think of it... thanks n blessings... gb

radioactive regions revering perfect poisonous poppies, depleted uranium decaying delivering deadly dust having hazardous half life, 4.5 billion years, becoming more n more radioactive as centuries n millenia pass by, passive population programmed, your told just what you need, so full of hatred, fear n bigotry, you can't even percieve of the destruction your ultimate greed has caused you to concieve, a planetary plague deadlier than any disease, only solution left now is to leave, all the oil will be made of us before this poisonous particle is gone, ironic justice justifying our own delayed destruction, wanna be heroes sacrificed like the chess master's pawns, shooting radioactive isotopes turns me on, a new shade of yellow, all my problems gone, contented as a newborn fawn, fiending for the itch,radiation junkies twitch, unknown hand flips a switch, causes the poles to flip, prying open old atomic bombs just to get one more fix, nuclear reaction blast can't hurt me, i've survived all this, just take a little taste of this new shit,
the first one's on me, i insist...
an offer like that, who can resist...

nodding off, the newest fix, the junkies are glowing, impossible to miss, noone to fight back, can barely stand up let alone make a fist, now to combine dope n radiation sickness, new level of turnover, death arrives with a never before seen quickness, now the deserts dust delivers decaying death, bullets betraying benefitors, blowing back, breathed in n brought back in blood n birthing babies born deformed, sullen soldiers semen spreading state sponsored sickness, secret sinners sitting safely underground, insulated in inner sanctums, official existance dutifully denied by deadly designers, war mongers puppets profitting, sit back n laugh, telling half truths to those on their staffs, silenced soldiers symptoms mean pensions won't last, more money to blow on the next big bash, exchanging the lives of all the poor on the planet for a little more cash, throwing away lives as if they were trash, a couple of years worth of oil for billions of years of death,dinosaurs decayed into oil, laughing as we poison the soil, burning what's left of their remains, every drop paid for with a infinite amount of pain, scientists constantly figuring out new ways to kill n say that we mystics are insane, thay've put too much trust into the power of their brains, but their only shells longing to fill a hole, never realizing that they're missing their soul, always wanting more without realizing this is an empty goal, never realizing the simple joy of being kind, believing those in power have their best interests in mind, but if you could read them you would be terrified at what you would find, controlling you from inside your brain, get in line to get onto the train, we'll take you to a place where there's no more pain, creating a new final solution through total pollution of body n mind, satellites see everywhere, astral projection the only way left to hide, if we came togethor we could realize it's all lies use the truth to revitalize, so control is imposed to conquer and divide, resisting negative influences from the outside , gather your strength, build it up inside, regardless of the likely outcome it's about time that we tried...

realize how control is imposed from outside...
stand up for yourself n take back your mind...

it's all up to you, only you can decide...

posted in jazz poets - 0 replies

econ

2005-08-30T16:38:13Z

i'm feeling hopeless again
armless and blind
my ears are acutely hearing
between the lines and it is painful

i'm feeling lost again
in the middle of a compass
that spins rolling downhill fastly

locked up
as if i'm supposed to be free
but fear holds me here
what fear to speak my mind
for fear i
lose my roof over my head
or
my life that i think i have

the biggest fear is to live in fear
i can't let go
control freak
i take control and hand it to you
like a marionette
i let you play me
but my mouth
is well oiled shut

i am made of fragile wood
if i speak the things i feel
while my arms move as you tell me to do
then who's play is it?
what am i in?
what is THIS drama?
it is no more mine
it is yours
is it ours??

i have to speak and say i don't like these things
these strings
this stage
is dysfunct

but i lock my
limber balsa wood mouth
because my puppet box sits beside you
and above it
with your maverick hands of cold gold

dancing my toes on the top
as if to remind me that
one whilm
and back into it
you can put me.

posted in jazz poets - 0 replies

Chimes

2005-08-22T16:21:29Z

Heats moved out,
steady lil breeze
chimes tappin the
still...............

posted in jazz poets - 0 replies

HIPSTERS, FLIPSTERS & FINGER POPPIN' DADDIES, KNOCK ME YOUR LOBES...

2005-07-21T20:09:54Z

INTERNATIONAL HIPSTER COALITION
*******************************
*WE'RE RECLAIMING THE NAME, DAMNIT!*
http://tribes.tribe.net/internationalhipstercoalition?r=10448#

"HIPSTERS, FLIPSTERS & FINGER POPPIN' DADDIES, KNOCK ME YOUR LOBES..."
~ LORD BUCKLEY

NO TREND-FOLLOWING, DADDY'S-MONEY-SPENDIN', USERS OF THE WORD "URBAN" FOR THE URBANE, HIPPIE-WANNA-BE, SPOILED, CLUB-CRAWLIN', DIME-A-DOZEN, BLAND PANTY-WAISTS HERE!!!

We welcome all REAL hipsters... What's the definition?

hip?ster (hip?ster)
noun

[Formed from hip2 + -ster]

Slang.

1. a person who is hip.
2. hepcat.
3. a person, (esp. during the 1950s), characterized by a particularly strong sense of alienation from most established social activities and relationships.
4.someone who rejects the established culture; advocates extreme liberalism in politics and lifestyle.

This can and does include all outside thinkers, RAB guys 'n gals, sharp dressed, cool poets and musicians, jazz lovers, bebop kats 'n kittens, hepcats, outside thinkers, those who really don't give a shite what others think, quick witted, nifty folks from all backgrounds.

This does NOT include the annoying wankers with too much money to spend and little else to do but blow it in cheesy dance clubs sporting the latest trends and repeating shite they heard on Friends or blathering about what happened on whatever crappy-assed "reality" show they watched last night.

That means that if you have the gall to utilize and misappropriate the term HIPSTER (as much as you have the word "urban") and add friggin' URBAN in front of it, GET LOST! The urban thing be so nuthin' anymore, it ain't funny and it just makes ya look like every other cargo pant advertisement out there. You're as original as a GAP commercial and twice as boring as a COLORS magazine! - SHOO! BUGGER OFF!

The rest of you - you poets, musicians, thrift shop savvy, sharp as a tack in the best of ways folks - you know who you are! C'MON IN!!!

Best,
T.Paul
a.k.a.
SwankHipster
http://tribes.tribe.net/internationalhipstercoalition?r=10448#

posted in jazz poets - 0 replies

an arts (yes, of course writers too) & politics forum being born

2005-07-11T00:22:47Z

hi. im birthing this forum that focuses mostly on art and left politics.

its all fresh and new and waiting for instigator types to help shape the place. hardly anyone in there right now but it has a lot of potential. who ever gets involved at this point would be key in developing the character of the place.

you can put pictures and stuff in each post.

im still adding a forum or two more and working on the design of the place.

i would be honored by your presence. come check it out: http://p207.ezboard.com/btheemptyroom

posted in jazz poets - 0 replies

a wee jazz poem...INVOCATION

2005-07-10T16:34:36Z

INVOCATION
***********

We need
PASSION
to put words into context
to formulate a pretext worthy
of our cut-and -paste verbal
aching to be heard
thunderclap blurred
quake-shake that thundering word herd
to
play those changes
that rearrange us
rain down rhythmic rhyme-time
jazz-jazz-jazzy clime
axe teases
in the licks chaotic
brrrrap-bap-bap-0-matic

PASSION
bring on the axiomatic
round sound midnight drumroll fury-
ocity
velocity
squeeze beat angel wings
'til they sing sweet
drink the bebop sax
the wing drip wax
of them that flew too close to the sun
fillin' holy souls and tongues
with the ever changin'
always in the now
manic minds eye milkmaid
leading the tongue tied
to the teat that paid the fare
with their jailtime press
and their pain was not in vain
they were paving the wagon train ruts with gluts
of tarry thick ideas
fresh with bloodsweat extract
doin' that literal literary lowstick limbo
into the next generation
of word play sensation-
alists
like us
thinkin' 'bout
what to say
and how to say it
that beat in rhyme
and time to play it

We need
PASSION
to bask in extremes
to set our wet absurdist dreams
in flight
through tarpaper night satellite kite crowded skies
where our white noise pen toys
spin spiderweb thin
sinewy monkey limbs
limberly groping at new poetical chins
our fingers licks spittle
thick with ripe hype glory
pricks the juice-blown words
tasting flying syllables
invisible chords tying them
to howling celestial forms
storm voices that are
politic / lunatic / heretic
our kinetic kites collide
in starry night skies
with leaky loud electric pens
our ecclectic process begins
where it never left off
sound richness
rhythmic hitches
content stitches
together
pop-pop-poppinn' a hole
in the whole of time
art serving purpose
continues expansion
in the Universe of Rhyme

We need
PASSION
to invoke the everyday
everyman
tin pan alley trashcan huckster scam
slam sing-song banter
that is simple
sinful
with those blam blam blam gunshot phrases
that glazed ham
canned heat
edge of your seat
repartee
because we learned from those who told it
who origami folded visions
in deserts dry
selling passers by
wordy purple fishes
from their oceans of sand

We've got to
EXPAND
on this vocabulary
form a mental constabulary
arresting ignorance at hand
because knowledge
IS
power
the sting bee in the flower
that pollinates and seeds
with concepts overgrowing
the weeds of conformity
building bridges of wisdom
over the dull beige schism
torn by sitcom mentally
and wisdom culminates awaiting cultivation
by our visual cortex
spiritual vortex whirling
helix twirling out
the answers to our prayers
and the spoken word blares
from invocation
to creation
occurring within
the process
of lookin' for words to say.

AND SOME DAYS THEY SPLIT ATOMS
AND SOME DAYS THEY KICK STONES

today they find our voice.

T.Paul Ste. Marie
coryright 2001

posted in jazz poets - 0 replies

Surrender

2005-06-26T07:39:09Z

Barest breath draped o’r satin skin
Tingles deep the serpent spine again
Strain of music pulling ever deeper
Heaving night against the silent reaper
Cast into a blackened sea – desire
Completes wind’s moaning cryptic sighs
Cradled close within a raven’s cries
Liquid lust coiled round marbled columns
Drips lucid longing astride the labyrinth
Where heads of maidens torn wince
In pleasured rhythmic dance – devotion
Whirling colored light in motion
Touches every inch, every thought
Held captive, tied up and caught
Carelessly as ancient hook piercing
Softest skin of mouth and lip
Rapturously opened wide to slip
Unseen beneath the changing tide
Surrender

posted in jazz poets - 1 reply

poem

2005-06-13T11:06:23Z

an infant in my toes
transluscent and alive,
living softly in a bay of mullein.
the dream is falling and turning on its side in the night.
careening into oceans with silver spurs and grains of salt in the rusted hull
I can feel my finger s in the sheets as the starry breath churns a wake into the sky. her nose just slightly buzzing in the crisp light of mourning. I am a care free rabbit in the skinner’s hands, sharpening my teeth. the sky’s limit in the corners of my brain, reaching in the dark with shaking fingers and close the windows cause youre letting all the air in. youre a sick fuck they tell me, youre lost in the grains of the sidewalk, mixing cement in the wheelbarrow with your bare hands and waiting for the mailman to come in the middle of the night. your mother is a brazillian goddess who has been worshiped by pimps and pastors, and the day light scares you they tell me. I took a seat in a tulip and we wilted together, waiting for the sun to rise but it never did. I woke up and it was too bright and I was lying in the middle of the empty floor with all my clothes on. it was a city outside and all the white paint made it look nice and there were voices and birds and the sounds outside were inviting. but then later I all came back slowly walking in from the thought and all the words and im supposed to have somewhere to go and the city was ugly again.

posted in jazz poets - 0 replies

topics of conversation

2005-06-13T10:59:43Z

hey, i'm the editor of an online literary magazine (blackmedina.net). just looking for a few new ideas for essays and articles.

any suggestions......

posted in jazz poets - 3 replies

Swallowed Whole

2005-05-22T03:22:57Z

Beneath polite smiles
And acquiescent nods
Hides the trembling skeleton
Bare bones of longing
Flesh sold to whoever can pronounce

The foul sound I beg to hear
The disgraceful lie
The grimacing smirk

Spoken in hushed tones
And private corners
More intoxicating than wine
With promised sweetness
Held tightly between lips
Thirsty for the merest breath
Softer than moonlight
Snatched from the jealous grasp
Of others more deserving than I

The crumbs from her table
The dregs he allows
Their leavings

I swallow whole
In choked silence

Beneath polite smiles
And acquiescent nods

posted in jazz poets - 0 replies

necessarily untitled

2005-02-06T17:45:51Z

on her lips...
my devotion
but mine
mine would continue to lie down to the veve'
infront on my feet

up
to my eyes..

in my eyes, i would say more than she could communicate...

they say that you are a sign
i
want to
colour because
you move through me
beyond
my desire or stubborness,

i
resist as
the sun does as it reclines....for the night all around him
while she ascends
the gravity of the living, then life...

posted in jazz poets - 0 replies

Lotus

2005-02-06T17:31:16Z

Fragrant and unfurling
warm petals of flesh
waiting for the blush
of your need
the crush
of your seed
poured upon her
delicate folds
and freed to

c
o
m
e

your gentle rain
your pounding flood
your musky wine
she drinks
so sweetly
and carries to
her holy chamber

her womb
the room
kept dark and red
the moon
you seek
is

h
e
r
e

Her alter divine
is mine
from birth to death
my breath
the sacred gift
I offer

posted in jazz poets - 2 replies

A Vision for the People of America-by Kenneth Patchen

2005-02-04T22:27:46Z

The poets with death on their tounges
shall come to address you

The fat nonsense will end.
You will drown in you rot.

The poets with death on their tounges
shall come to address you.

The slimy hypocrisy will end.
You will go drown in your filth.

O the poets with death on their tounges
shall come to address you.

posted in jazz poets - 0 replies

Postin'

2005-01-31T16:55:10Z

KItty's Kraft

She walks onto the stage carrying a torch for Ella, Nancy, Bessie…the others who have come before her
Seeing her sequined gown, the audience pants anticipation, clearly they adore her
Her draped fur hits the floor, opening notes in soprano-sax begin to quietly storm in crescendo-soar
Announcing that She is ready to perform
Piano Man sweats, he’s getting warm
She sings, scats and serenades
Till the curtain falls, till the tension fades
Caught up in the melody that she presents, moon rivers cry
There’s nary a dry eye in the place
As she fills the night air with rhythm, with sound, with grace
Onlookers forget that the mortgage is overdue,
Even forget for the moment that baby needs new shoes
Its amazing what Kitty does with them pipes belting out jazz-inspired blues
Wives forget their husbands have babies with other womens (intentional sp.)
Cheaters are miraculously forgiven
That night, half-drunken men fall in love with their wives all over again, in the club
Under the dim lighting provided by an energy saving 40-watt bulb
Reaching his hand over to Familiar, he caresses her thigh, rubbing the pain of betrayal away
Soothed she grooves, careful not to sweat her freshly done hair
She nods her agreement, not willing to draw attention to herself, nor wanting couples seated nearby to stare
She coes deep in in her throat, just loud enough to make Lover aware
That he is the sole bidder for her most precious wares
As Singer sings her signature songs, lovers are mesmerized, implanted with the will to live
Refilled enough to give love another try
Singer smiles knowing what the cost of admission can buy
Lit by the light of a hundred heart symphony, Singer sways
Aware that mercy has had its way
Tonight, she’s earned more than the club owner could ever pay.
****************************************
Dedicated to a Civil Rights era Kitty DeChavis - a legendary jazz singer who is still performing

posted in jazz poets - 0 replies

short story - the sterling roses of big sur

2005-01-31T11:12:22Z

Sterling had never had his portrait painted. His father, a one time artist now embittered angry sage of the back woods bar, painted portraits of all of his children, except for his eldest, who received a more visceral sort of affection. He was a masculine man, in his thirties, but had the demeanor of an ignored teenage boy who liked to spit and smoke camel cigarettes. He had a wholly American sadness that hung from his head in deep brown locks and limped across the bar in a cowboy strut. His smile, merely a poker face. When you spoke to him he would look up at you (as he only stood five and half feet in boots) with the look of a boxer measuring your steps and counting your breaths with the intention of striking at your Achilles sentiments. He never attacked, although you were of the unexpressed knowledge that he could at any time, rather he left you to the discomfort of his eyes, sadly questioning and effeminately charming in their vulnerabilities.

His father, Neil, claims to have introduced the west coast to LSD, and to have turned on all of north beach’s musicians, creating, from the doldrums of a stale rock’n’roll scene, a fresh psychedelic sound that would travel around the world more times than the moon. This was in the early sixties when hippies were still beatniks and jazz was still cool. He would sit for hours at north beach dive bars, drinking table wine and conning girls into posing for nude portraits, laughing at queer Ginsberg’s paranoia and lying about hanging with Mingus at negro jazz joints. 1968 being his annus mirabilis when he pioneered an underground art movement in the Haight and became father to his first step away from freedom. Now he drinks neat bourbon and sits alone for hours, still in his work clothes, watching his paint-less hands crack in the dry cold of Big Sur’s redwood night. He once painted a portrait of his youngest daughter over a ten year period. What started out as a girl swinging in joy as a child turned into whatever his current feeling was for her. It is currently a curious face seen through an aquarium, but three layers of dried oils and five years beneath the surface, sleeps a contorted face of a girl with a fish hook through her neck, being dragged to shore. While no one can see that history, it is there, just as surely as the loss in the wrinkles of his crow’s eyed stare. It’s not that he couldn’t have made it as a successful painter, but having a kid and a beaten sense of responsibility at a young age, took him down a different path. He has never forgiven Sterling for his birth, and refuses to honor his victor in paint. He used to punch his son, but is aware of his son’s inherited strength and again has to acknowledge defeat to him, this golden boy named of silver.

Sterling attempted to paint, under the dictation of his father, but could never get the water to flow down stream. It only appeared to flow the wrong direction, to the secret joy of Neil, who was able to retain something sacred from the reaches of his unwitting thief son. So now Sterling does not consider himself an artist. He fashions praise-worthy furniture from stumps of deadwood scavenged from his south coast property, and places them in obscure galleries with only a small price-tag attached. Priced much too low to be considered high art, it never receives the attention worthy of it’s craft and sits, dusty and un-purchased, under piles of over-priced shawls and handmade candles. It is true that all art is a self-portrait, and if you look closely enough, you will recognize Sterling in a three legged redwood end table, slowly gathering dust and going mostly unnoticed.

posted in jazz poets - 0 replies

Unguarded moments

2005-01-31T05:57:11Z

So easily lost in unguarded moments
the last time held within in your orbit.
Being, just being and nothing to hide
but myself after the look in your eyes.

Thinking shame a thing of the past but
wrong to assume the acceptance of now.
Circling endlessly, spiraling gracelessly
day and night wondering if you understand.

Woven through each other’s lives,
wondering how either of us arrived,
my warp, your weft judging the cloth
before the design was even born – torn.

Somehow the pain feels right without
even knowing that it would, the trust
is what it’s all about – the surrender.
Yet you wish for something less fierce.

The scorpion spirit I crave without remorse
the fire of imagination you mysteriously
dangle in the remote corners you keep
locked away and rationed so carefully.

You claim the gentle soul of a jester?
I laugh! You have the steel hands of a
whip-crazed goddess with fingers teasing
words ungodly from these salted lips.

posted in jazz poets - 0 replies

Summertime

2005-01-30T21:34:58Z

professor at the school of hard-bop.
disciple of the blue note.
giving us his version of confession.
hailing mary to come out
of the bathroom,
put the needle down
and feel real salvation.
serving us his taste
of summertime,
but the livin' was never easy
and the fish were only
jumping so they could
catch a breath.
cotton was getting high
in the backroom,
dreaming her father
may have been there,
if he were rich.
but her momma was
definately good-lookin'.
so hush baby
and hear the music.
he sat in front of us,
leaning back in his chair.
with one hand pounding
out a sermon,
while the other was
raised in the air,
as if asking
if he could get a witness.
ripping the air asunder.
letting notes escape.
building it up,
only to break it down.
can he get a witness?

posted in jazz poets - 3 replies

New Here

2005-01-30T19:37:35Z

I'm new here but I want to say that I love the soul-music being shared here. I guess I'll dive in by adding a bit of my own.

Love and Light
Beki

Sanctify Me

Double helix rising, the she-serpent seduces me
with your energy, I am charmed and dance to
the music of your flute - the instrument
my body loves to play with sweetened lips.

Jewels alight with fire and glow:
ruby, onyx, citrine, emerald, sapphire, amethyst and
diamond the precious strand of knowing deep within
filled with the light of your essence.

Undress me with your smile to stand naked
before the universe, undraped and open.
Take me as your goddess, your lover, your friend
bare as the earth, draped in gossamer breath.

You are the ocean I dive into forgetting how to swim
sinking deep into the fluid emotion you inspire
in weightless, floating waves of pleasure so that I
drown, dissolving into the molecule of oxygen

Becoming one with your hydrogen - lighter than air
we evaporate and rain our magick on the earth
creating new life, new thought, new existence.
With merged flesh...come, sanctify me.

posted in jazz poets - 0 replies

Spitting a Thought

2005-01-30T08:49:59Z

At the Cafe

And here
we engage ourselves--
ripped to the rhythm
of the Jazz Man
singing.
(Is he slinging?)
He s(l)ings songs
about the arrowpoints
of lonliness
piercing his flesh,
while his guitar strings
vibrate and stray,
rattling the truth
loose
until it slips
like a glass vase
from a tabletop--
the bobble and tip,
then the skitter
of the small shards
across a painted face
of linolium

posted in jazz poets - 0 replies

the devine search for poetry

2005-01-27T05:30:46Z

looking for poets for a valentine's day reading hosted by blackmedina.net

A proposal of love, an invitation to trust, learn, explore and express what dwells in your heart and bare your soul. This Saint Valentine's Day, we will gather to celebrate the concept of universal love while reciting the poetry, prose and free verse for which our space in time will be remembered. As we do so, we politely extend an invitation for you to join us.

Monday, February 14th, 2005 at 7pm

Apacalypse Lounge
189 East 3rd Street NYC (Between A & B)

if youre interested in reading, please contact us at info@blackmedina.net

posted in jazz poets - 0 replies

Quiet song

2005-01-25T20:24:16Z

You crossed my life
playing the song
quietly
Softly awaking
a tingling light
in me

You showed me the moon
above my head
quietly
I lost what I've had
because
it blinded me

You crossed my life
singing the song
quietly
Now you're gone
and the tingling light
burned out
completely

posted in jazz poets - 1 reply

where my poets at?

2005-01-25T19:35:45Z

post some shit poets.

posted in jazz poets - 0 replies

drunken angels sing the same sad songs

2005-01-25T00:30:19Z

I have turned a score and four
dead two years past

and now I wake to walk

through sorrows streets

filled with spirits

drawn from my whores’ bed

by the music cavalcades

gallivanting nude trumpeteers

fingering away obscene gestures

hair drenched hipsters

dancing in dark rooms

bone thin bassmen

slapping their soul

swollen head poets

professing without confession

giving it to the man
(and woman)

and to the children
who dance over flailing ropes

the sons of sons of sons of slaves

forming drums on their tongues

scratching stickmen into subway caves

and poesticizing the folk tales

oh thank you new york
oh thank you west coast
oh fuck you middle america
with your blinders on
plowing the industries of parking lots
sweeping clean the floors of courthouses
sucking dry the cocks of the rich

I wake to walk through streets of this

where the angels haft stowed away
crouched in corner booths
lifting their glasses to me

and I tip my hat
in homage to my youth
in tribute to smoldering coals
in spite of fires in barrels

my jim morrison dreams

and james dean idolatries

and celine slum fantasies

are all but achieved

for death and dirt and martyrs

I will not succeed

but for these drunken angels

I will join rank

and to the tunes they hum

I will sing

for the fallen

drunken angels

I SING!

posted in jazz poets - 3 replies

keep it live kids

2005-01-24T10:14:02Z

other tribe talk is lax man, let's keep this shit postin toasty!

posted in jazz poets - 0 replies