Jazz, you either love it or hate it. Me, I do both: I like it and despise it…
I have my reasons. Reasons I’m not ready to disclose, but
read this poem I wrote and maybe,
Just maybe catch my drift,
hearing its riffs on rifts I not chose.
Sacral Jazz
Dibble, dabble,
I babble, I bubble,
at trouble.
No truce,
never I, only yous.
Hearing ire, dire,
I try to aspire
to more.
I, dreamer,
dream
of love supreme,
yet miles go between,
him and her.
Their quarrel, below.
the squirrel, slow.
Blow by blow,
I hold my heart, hurt,
and hear the bird solo,
in my room hiding
for the boom of angry tunes.
For the low tones to the bone I,
and only I,
feel alone.
Here I hide for the light,
I listen not for life,
tonight, not for love,
but for the jiff and jive of jazz
sounding through words of dirt,
whispers’s birth,
winds of change,
trading love for,
enough,
letting go of,
never speaking of,
a couple of,
love once,
destitute now,
of,
desperate of,
devoid of,
bereft of ,
all love left now.
Yes, with sacral jazz,
I soak in these sess-
ions of sacrimony,
of holy matrimony,
Sacrileged by animo-
sity. Stringlike
the knife slids,
and slides into skin,
stings and rings rife of rage.
No more strings,
as the sax,
sings of sacred darkness,
I bleed,
ripened red blood.
Drip and let rip
droplets of,
bloodletting, my only outlet.
Because due
blue notes kind to my ears,
I hear you, dears, on cue,
through the blues of
trumpets,
And I long for love,
and for
a lost quintet,
a losing triplet,
a trio,
a piano, playing,
fading out,
alone.
Left solo.