I bled Miles Davis in G
sharp multi-dimensional operas
& dreaming grey sounds
grey smoke triangles crocheted in
snake functions, fluxed over cool medleys
while my blood flowed into blue Dada pools
of Picasso accents, transposed
in the thick atmosphere of artificial probes
alcohol oceans of invention
& involution
invariable to the bone,
this moaning zone
this passion signature of Sinatra
drowning in red Vegas sand
with cool blue beats between
sweats & suffocations
New Orleans’ nights, tangled
& strangled
up in Bossa Nova
in syncopated rhythms of mad doctor blues
deep in the grind time of jazz-a-matazz
café street aficionados
working the madhouse energies
and highway freedoms
of internal improv like Holiday & Hell
in the back-beat of bebop blowing cocaine horns
&grace &scales &whores &harmonies
&storms -
&black witch doctors shot out of dead beat summers,
bitches brewed in heroin sunsets
like so many found rhythms
gone numb;
those dead dreamers on hotel park benches
shadow needles in their veins
with cold copper in their eyes
staring nowhere,
caught behind the nowhere stairways
stairs that lead nowhere up and into the
sideways alleys w/ the bad cats
in the bad hats
snapping in aristocratic cadence
oozing Coltrane out of holes
hell-holes & hotels
twisting down into the sinner cinemas
twisting Eight to the bar
twisting fusion, steel electric pulses
in blood gardens,
wild ivy twisting on the walls
in bathroom stalls
beating symphonic masturbations
down and into the concrete jungle mayhem
waiting for the taxi
waiting for the train
waiting for the hurricanes to calm
in the wild butterfly ride
in the wild crash of mad seconds -
neon tingling from the neuron eyes
hyperpolarized
in mad feedback cerebellum tones
etched & chromed
wet explosions
wild in the abandon of red lights
w/ a kamikaze scream!
All those vacant wanderers
from 1950's Harlem doing the motel midnight vertigo
smashed & crashed
in saxophone bones
as a thousand verses blow
shuffling slow & shuffling low
drifting in the jism of jasmine perfumes
off the seventh chord
in form, in fuse
in amalgamated subway tornado blues
split shadows over Central Park bridges
reading Tom Sawyer down the river
"riding out the day's events"
catching the spirit
(catch my drift?)
"always hopeful, yet discontent"
dancing with Mingus in Memphis;
all those variations
like changing the weather
from station to station
just as curiousity killed the cat

tempos & etudes in invisible frames
in the scraps of wide open spaces
round about Monk
syncopated on the Epistrophy vinyl
of Love Supreme masquerades
monumentally indulged in the whispering
of Paris gulls falling out of the
collapsed cosmos
burned retinas,
cold novas of the soul.

And there is the girl from Ipanema,
Swings...

You find yourself at the bottom
of an empty tea cup
made from bone China
in the Bistro Harmonium,
listening to cruel perspectives
as the universe box closes about you:
“Let me out!” -you can only move
And a new saxophone triggers up a new melody;
insects in trains down the metropolis freeway
running the voodoo down
like broken clockwork carnivals
all along the frozen glass beach,
from the bleached jazz of Miles in G.


-------

*Quotes around the Tom Sawyer metaphor
from the genius
of Neil Peart.

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