the nest

there is a harpy nest, come newly to my garden, and there are no
more sparrows, no more clamors from gold and buttery flies, or
scampers, furtive full of laugh, and i can not serve my teas, or fancy

chocolates, and i can not smell the moon's corruption, dancing with
those chattery peonies in our round n round, or scatter dandy treats
to tempt the neighbor lad, for they spy my night diversions, swallow

whole my sleep

or were you dreaming

lost, riff #4

i'm making potions for my southie boy, dark-up from his boylston
toughies, all asmudge with streetly rambles, 'less he's lost me, where
we hide from daddy's bruises, and let the whiskey do our supper song

he sees me with my morning shadows, hid beneath some winter
covers, laughing with those silly pixies, maybe crying for my tinker's
old despair, wondering if this dust can make me fly, 'cause i would

take my lad away, wash his feet in the salty sea, wash these tearsome
days until he sleeps his smiling sleep, 'less he's lost me, dancing down
old riff-raff jingles, searching out a fancy gentleman, or two, or were you

simply dreaming

Good morning, avid readers. You'll need to slide on down to my previous post and read the first 2 riffs on lost before going on. Don't cheat, the pleasure just won't be as great.

lost, riff #3

jocko sells my flowers, pulled without my care from ancient dahlia
trees, and makes coffee-whispers when i smell him smiling, what a
day full-up with flavors, were i not all loopy lost in mobile, alabam

and i can not see my window, running with these southern fellas,
stepping in their shadows, making smooches for their whiskey, and
i can not sing some sheebops, lying in these dusty places, snapping

sillies with my sly ole flying fingers, or may be i'll read
t.williams, i have a blanche they've never seen, i am a pleasure
rather rare, with treats perhaps unseemly, lost here in alabam

lost, riff #1

i may have lost my lover, sleeping botticelli in the dunes, or was i
confecting lime-sweet meringue to leave him quite a marvel, dollopped
but i am ahungry for his sea salt, crusty glimmers for my taste, and

there are distractions in my roaming that i never fail, that know
my poor caresses, sleep near to my night time frivols, and i can not
warm him sillied to the sun, or give him comforts to fit his riddle

ways, i am no slake to this thirsty laddy, and smile yet to the blowsy
boys on Grand, delivering fame in mocha cups of froth, waiting for
some whoopee two-steps to fill my resume, i may have lost my lover

lost, riff #2

i lost my rapture for buttery cakes, mislaid neath your window, rocking
in your daddy's chair, waving with the dahlias, besotted, little flower,
volupted with hot kisses, sillied, your loopy never-boy

days end, nights bewilder, then fail, i get ravened up with sleeping,
swallowed with some sweet vermouth, but you still want me
with your ferocious pleasures, the why of it never sings to me

it's a twisty tale

If you've been following this ad hoc space for any length of time, you'll notice that certain themes are recurring, often with imagery flowing across discrete poems. It's a jazz-ian take on poetry, riffs of a melody pursued from different angles, times, ages. Role-playing, relationships between father and son, aging, pursuit of love (in its various guises), are all preoccupations within my work. Every few weeks the theme morphs, sometimes gradually, sometimes quite noticeably.

My thematic changes, stylistic changes, are not actually conscious decisions. Place, circumstance play their tune. You may also have noticed that I take the jazz analogy a step further with my play on words. Usage, context, noun/verb mutability can lead to a density that can't be easily achieved through traditional means. But the very word 'tradition' carries cultural baggage defying criticism on levels deviant from pan-Euro / Americana notions. Roles have great inertia.

Let's have some fun.

i have a window

i have a window, made of old stuff, grayed out in the sun, where
i can make my spying, safe and full-up with the warm of day,
and it never shadows my careful eye, never leaves me open

to the hardness lying by, it is a window special to my taste,
obedient to my ways, i am become here precious

i have a savory flavor, and i may cause with you, bring you
arias from the world away, pander you with scotches, rums
and scents, leave you pleasured, should i gift you with

lollipops and whispers

come sit with me, i am rare as those hothouse secrets,
i was an old man yester day, drunk up with churchy
hymning, drunk up with frittery oratory, but i have a window,

where i can tango in the dark, wear some fancy glimmers,
bring my little frivols to the play, i have watched you making
kisses, and i'll favor you my bruises, imagine you with blushes

we'll forget the sun betakes us both unkindly, if only you will
sit with me

heroes

i may sit the night entire, wrapped in hot rum and lemons, all floaty
on your window sill, to guard against the day, come roaming early,
come ahungry for your favors,

i was down listening, maybe stealing clevers from the catholic boys,
hawking day old port to the crosstown freddies, when i smelled
your sweet confusions,

or was i selling tosca, giving whoopie to the pimps, and stopped
my indelicate perusals, sent those jollies on their way, for i would be
your hero

saturday night

i'll make a dance, here, on your waxed-up kitchen floor,
where my toes are pointy from that yester boy's sly laughing,
raise my arms and shimmy with some ella swing, cause i'm a tasty lad
and a whiskey sour tenor from the all-star corner choir

to jack --- 'my end of days', morning coffee at peet's

my end of days

where did i leave my end of days, i may be lost, somewhere
making coffee all dollopped with my caramel, watching hamlet
dance his daddy's sarabande, dizzied by those sparrow songs

i've tossed some clever fineries into my parlor, covered windows
with old widow-wear found secret in your alley, and barely
brown magnolias float with subtle glamours in auntie's china bowl

and where's that clever laddy, brown-eyed and laughy, serving
ice cream to the church girls waddling in my lane, maybe making
peonies, maybe chatting up the stranger who has bedded neath my stairs

and i can't remember where daylight starts, how night can be so loose
or where i put the green-eyed boy, who summered on my pillow
ate my biscuits full of butter and teaspoons full of jam

and i can't go tip-toed cross my old veranda, do my pivots, do
extravaganzas when a.miller snaps her heels, and i can't remember
why the sun still leaves me cold, cause i've hoarded kisses every night

or should i cook some grits and bacon, blush wild turkey cross my lips,
i'd be a tasty treat for dawdlers out waiting for the dawn, but
where did i leave my end of days, and put the green-eyed boy

untitled #3

come sleep with me, i have my way with nightful dances, and
know your bluesy corners, hours full-up with tossing sambas,
running from the jazzman and doing scat all stringy in the smoke

i can still snap doo-wop beats, and i'll leave martinis at the door
to keep the boogey boys from dallying in your dark, come sleep
with me, i have some secrets and chocolate cherries we can share

Yes, I can hear the complaints mount. From Jersey to Mobile to Kuala Lampur. Sooo, while ya'll wait just a bit longer, I'm bringing back one of my personal favorites ---

waiting

he sat behind a mirror, drinking bourbon sweet and sassy
waiting for the sun to rise, waiting for the dawn to warm his
toes, laying riffs up on the window sill, in that same ol' same ol'

and he dreamed, and he tasted old and salty wounds, and he
sang, chasing katydids, waking up the sugar apple trees, and he
laughed, cause days are short and sleeping's lost its way

so he rocked, with his daddy's slow and easy, wrapped in
d.ellington's aharmony in g, waiting for his lies to lose their
joyful ways, and the sun to rise, and the bourbon turn to scotch