addled
fat-ass
complaining

all the new music is crap
club banging loose doors
no dynamic range
and sex-twinkie full 

all the new music is crap
dingling guitar crash
no resolution to the lines
of stumblebum mopey gloomtrash

all the new music is crap
canned rhymes and software
no sense of uplift or history
and who are these decorative women

all the new music is crap
hats, hats, hats and more hats
no whiff of messy hair under there
and what’s the difference among them

you bad little whiner
you age-inappropriate gymnast
on the high bars of current flavor
I salute you
you patriot

because only a true American
makes a case for used to be over right now
as he tears down old homes
to build salt box mansions in defunct potato fields

only a true American 
yearns for his tradition
while spitting on someone else’s
as its getting off the ground

only a true American
bends ancient blue notes
and calls them
the latest and greatest

addled fat ass
with your watery beer
in a venerable bottle
addled fat ass
with a tin ear
on a stone head
addled fat ass
that won’t shake unless
the song’s got dust on it

you won’t admit you remember
that they said the same thing
back when you were tossing
your hair in a free swirl
and addling yourself on beat
and drugs in a field somewhere
you were young and open
but getting older by the note
but swearing they were stupid
as you did the rebel and the stomp
to something crappy yourself
and knowing it wasn’t the song as much
as the dancing in extremis
that made you

no music will save you, fool,

they told me.  no rock, no hip-hop,
no country or chamber.  you ought to know
there’s no Savior Composer, no Blessed Singer
to reach down and pull the likes of you up. I did not listen

to them.  there was too much
to naysay that.  moments when a joystring
of Afropop tugged me to my feet,
or when a tossed off bluerock 
tore me out of a dark bed to dance.

not everything feels like salvation
but enough does to let me know
how little they knew of it.  my feet
are consistenly drawn free of the ground
by simply switching on the radio.  some crunk beat
roils me, a trumpet foils my despair,
a singer turns one note — one note! — 
perfectly to one side and I rise.

it is no Personal Savior, I admit.  many
are lifted this way.  I’ve watched them
all around me, eyes closed, hovering
in clubs, thrashing against the ceilings
of their cars, air drums crashing;
my brothers, my sisters.  all of us
in the midair of song.  if we open
our eyes long enough and see each other,
we smile — those who call us fools
will never understand.
those who called us fools
are far beneath us now.

Most experiences make you deeper.  This one makes you wider.  — from the original liner notes of “Are You Experienced?”

The world was breaking.
This was
the music of pieces.

When it played
we believed in fragmentation
and eventual reassembly.

“This one makes
you wider,”
said the liner notes.

There still hasn’t been
enough Hendrix in the air
for us.

We still
lie on our floors,
listening,

certain the next time “Third Stone From The Sun”
plays it’ll happen.
This isn’t nostalgia,

we swear.  It’s re-creation.
A second chance at getting it right
the first time.

Maybe it was only his world
that expanded?  We’re going to have
to listen again

to the sound of boundaries
and memories.  Maybe
that’s our new world, rising over there.

Look
I’m a working man
I took a job in concert security
just to see some shows and
make a little pocket change
I’m just like you
so please stop making my job
so difficult
I’m a musician myself
I want to rush the stage myself
but they pay me to be calm
unless I need to bust your head
and I will do that
even though I want to rush the stage with you
because they pay me to
and no matter how great that solo is
no matter how much I want to be carried forward
on the wave of sound
please can you clear the aisles
so I can go home tonight
without having busted a head
and thus souring myself
on concerts forever

The jazz organ
makes a face — rather,
a lot of faces.  A twisted smile
followed by an upraised chin,
closed eyes with movement
under the lids,

and then the saxophone, the poking finger
demanding entrance into the reverie —

time to break one stride, find a new one.
Eveyone sprinting together down a road,
perhaps in North Carolina late at night,
toward a dilapidated church that hides
a still.  Party in the sacred space —

bass and drums,
sidekicks, strong and soft-spoken,
peek out from beyond
the circle of light from the fire.
Drift over there, see what their take is
on the goings-on.

This music has a face.
Eyes open, calm intelligence.
A darkness that resists
the incursion of obvious message —
says,
it is what it is.  Sit down
and listen, don’t speak to it
unless it speaks to you.

— for William Parker and Cooper-Moore

It’s Thursday night at Hardy’s Basement
Furious Intent’s slopping over the edge of the stage
Debbie Scenestealer’s drunk and hooting
by the soundboard where if signs are correct
she’s sleeping with Ronnie again
On stage Bobby’s saying he’s gonna cold-cock Gil
if he fucks up one more change
Spooky the drummer can’t keep time
with the apocalypse going on in front of him
Sandy’s E-string is a half cent flat
and that makes her bass sound like a sick foghorn
They’ve all got pawn shop specials to play
and someone’s got a blown tube
so there’s fuzz all over everything
and it’s starting to get painful
but at least we’re not breathing the smoke
from the patio when we’re in here
breathing the fire roaring underneath the noise
Spooky counts another one off
and it’s Dead Boys time
like we need a cover of Sonic Reducer
to crank this up any higher
but tonight they’re faster and louder
than usual
or maybe they’re finally drunk enough to play
Sandy’s finally reached up and tweaked that string
Gil’s finally keeping up with what Bobby’s putting down
and Bobby’s finally putting EVERYTHING down
gonna spend it all right here and now
every speck of how pissed he was just before this
showing in the veins ripping through his neck
and there might be blood on the strings
considering how much blood is in the song
and it seems all at once that we do
need another cover of Sonic Reducer
if Debbie Scenestealer’s gonna have anything to say about it
when she comes Docs first across the floor
and is onstage with the band
Bobby hands her the mike
and damned if ninety-five black leotard and eyeliner pounds of Debbie
isn’t turning into tornado awesome right before our eyes
as Furious Intent slops tsunami dagger fire over the edge of the stage
and Hardy’s Basement becomes the best damn hellmouth on earth
for two minutes and thirty nine seconds
right before the house lights come up
and Ronnie starts telling us to get the fuck out
we don’t have to go home
but we can’t stay here
as if we thought anyone could
or should
stay here
for any more time than it takes
to burst into flame

This poem was written and performed to open a concert in Worcester, MA, on October 2, 2010.  Musicians playing:  Mike Connors, Charlie Kohlhase; Cooper-Moore, William Parker.  An astonishing night of creative music….I was honored to be part of it.

Note: This is the text I carried on stage and worked from, but there was much improvisation from the text.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When we are free
we do not need to dream of flying

When we are free
we are unlabeled

When we are free
we are in all places at once

Think of a city

Rusted fire escapes
frame dawn bright night
and car horns align
with shouted calls to neighbors across courtyards

Sunday churches
spill their God-seeds into the streets
to praise the day
alongside Saturday night’s hangovers
dew-eyed sleepy children
soft-cored hustlers
sad ancients
bewildered and strong
and rich and poor

In this city of now built on past

one may look up thirty
forty fifty stories
rise to the heights
look down at the rushing street

Think of rivers
cliffs
and
music

Think of a canyon outside the city
cut through to the roots of earth

where a woman sits
at the bottom
by a cook pot
near a carving river

She looks up at the walls
still dark at mid-morning
and thinks of climbing

Water in a pot
just ahead of boiling
sings to her

Listening only to that water voice
she must turn as it commands

Her eyes screwed shut
she leaves her chores
scales shadowed rocks
toward sun above

Climbs
with
that boiling song
in her ear
to the cliff top
and sees the city ahead

Begins to walk

Inside every song
is the voice of water

Water carving stone
Cold water warming
Water above fire
Water just before boiling
Rain on the streets
Rushing down gutters and drains
Fluid clockwork rocking time
that has no need of schedule
Quoting the nameless voices that burble
underneath

Everything we know from books
Everything we know from others
Everything we know
is water

The woman reaches the city
Enters the liquid violet energy
Walks hard streets
Stops before windows
Alleys echoing party chatter
Piles of boxes behind bodegas
Dinosaur rumble of trains and buses
Horns bouncing echo off echo

Night comes in
Ghost fog a redemption
for the punishing day

Think now of a night club
with its far corners dim and busy
crowded with remainders of dinner crowd
Slick aficionados
Novice joy chasers
Students and mages
All in watchful attendance
upon what is to come

Saxophone asters
Trumpet roses
Ivory key-bones
Starflung bass
Grown in fertile underlying soil
of swift sifting drums

The woman stirs with understanding
Water song singing inside her

The woman remembers the tree blown down in the storm
striking the ledge
tumbling down the cliff
into the water
which cried out as it entered

The essence of horn is in blowing and blocking
The essence of string is in striking, permitting, and stopping
No one needs to have explained to them
the essence of the drum
rush of shaken skin
thrumming in ear canals

Look at the shocked eyes
and the odd remastered ears
back in the startled corners
The dinner crowd saying
This is not what we came for
This isn’t what we thought we’d hear

The woman tells them

Do not give this a name you know already
Don’t try to manacle it to the words
harmony
melody
rhythm
Don’t think of formal labels
Don’t limit your attention to its purpose
Do not kidnap this
or hold it for ransom
It is a crime against Essence
to clap music into confinement
There is a trial going on here
This is just the opening statement
This is a broken dam
Just
Know
This
Voice
that is under all
Cutting shape out of raw time
examining the sound of its bones
eroded by current
exposed here
in the banks of the river

She hears the tree crashing
to the ledge unseen crying
The water In the canyon
The water in the pot
Just before boiling
Herself on the cliff side
not falling
singing

And she knows
She need not go home to the canyon
The canyon is an inside song now
Needn’t stay in the city
The city is an inside song now

And you now
Think of yourselves
Soaked in this
Think of the ocean
you’ve plunged into
Inside you now
Think of yourself
So moist with music
Inside the song

Play in the rough surf
Ride the rivers threading into the stone roots of earth
Follow rivulet into silent moss vanishing
Reemerge a spring on granite
Follow the essence of clear
The drum bossing the air
The horn crowning the fire
The bass bursting the earth
Keys and strings damp with music

All flooding all

When it ends
you will know the woman
you will know her as Mother
you will know her as Music
You will know her
as you know yourself

When she turns to disappear
into the healing fog
of the night
To walk past the churches
and the buildings
The neighbors and the blare of horns

When she chooses to climb
back into the heart of earth
back to the pot on the boil
back to the simple river carving beside

You’ll know what she knows
that the Song chooses its Singers
Its Listeners

Now

Think of the doors
you walked through to enter here
The water lapping against them

Outside these doors
when all is done

Altered ears will listen to the shell
you have lifted from the shore
of this new world

and then
you will
know

know Freedom
know the Song

Blue music, blue walls,
blue light in a steeple
by the side of any road
through any town.

Could be a low building
by the road, could be tall and slick
but mostly it won’t be.
It’s always church, though,

inside the blue steeple;
blue walls echo blue music,
blue church is calling out —
and I’m just a passenger

on this bus that won’t stop
as it passes by blue steeples,
so I’m singing along in my sleep,
blue pillow under my head.

I call any place I can hear blue music
my church.  That’s not far wrong,
in fact it’s just right —
hear the rafters knock?

That bell?  That glory of
singers?  That sound
of walls holding in
wholeness, holiness —

and on this bus too, a holiness.
Time means nothing on a bus
full of blue music that’ll end soon
though it will return.

I won’t wait up for it.
Will tuck my head into the pillow
and sleep a while, the song
in me, midnight ringing on for hours.

Tags: poetry, poems, music