POETRY: ERREN GURAUD KELLY – YOU BRING THE JAZZ OUT IN ME…

You Bring Out The Jazz In Me…
 
You bring out the jazz in me
The Art Blakey, Max Roach the Roy Hanes in me
Seeing you  shake your hips like
Congas…the way you move your hips to a mamba
My heart pounding like drums inside my head
But this fever wont put me in bed
Instead I get out on the dance floor
Your body like a treble clef note
Makes me  want  to dance more
It’s true,  you do…
You bring out the jazz in me
The Fats Navarro , Terrence Blanchard  and  Dave Douglas in me
I want to mimic the trumpets shout…cure war and recession
Act a clown like Dizzy, fix this country of racism and oppression
Make this country great again, even better than trump
You make me sing sweet freedom, every time I see your rump
Make me want to take king’s place on  that balcony
Be a human shield for J.F.K.,  oh for the life of me
Maybe anarchy will prevail with the sound of a horn
Though my rage and fury causes flags to be torn
Maybe like Chet, I’ll walk both worlds between a boy
And a girl, I’ll help the alphabet army rock the world
This is my love letter,  from me it’s true
You bring out the song of revolution in me
Yes, you do…yes, you do.
You bring out the jazz in me
The Jaco Pastorious Charlie Mingus
And Paul Chambers in me,
See your body mimic the the shape of a double bass,
Grab your wide hips
Cos I’m all about that bass, could never be a gigolo
Though I’ve been a heartbreaker…I’ll play you like
A brass band, be a real love maker, as every note
Comes out of me rings true
Together,  were a symphony and i want to play you
Play you, play…you….
You bring out the jazz in me
The high hat and the double time in me
Feel the downbeat of you and
And the backbeat, that’s true
Watch my blood pressure rise and
Fall like arpeggios
Want to take five after swinging with you
But oh no, a rim shot salutes your
Brilliance
And I want to multi track your excellence
I want to solo with you for ever and
Ever
You bring out the jazz in me…the piano playing
Keyboard slaying shaman in me…I want to make
Robots rise like Herbie…and turn l.a.
Into a psychedelic sci fi  roller derby
Like Wynton Kelly, I’ll seduce you into a trance
And  we’ll wake up in a speakeasy, and I’ll watch you dance
Like Bill Evans, the song of the mademoiselle suits you
We’ll dive into hysteria like monk
Craziness suits you
I can lose myself in any dream I please
Be a warrior or a healer, by way of 88 keys
I’m an errand boy for rhythm it’s true
A masochist for aural pleasure, it’s all because of you
It’s  true, you do, bring  it out of me…
-for Lisa
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poetry: jd dehart – world goes

World Goes

Tomorrow, the world goes on,
they have no idea what has
transpired. It is as if everyone
lives in a vacuum.

Everyone continues to the road
to finding personal happiness
through grand spending. We must
be there at 7:30 AM, we must be
here by noon.
The memo is so important.

They have no idea what I have
lost in the process, and could barely
be bothered to slow down enough
to take note.

~

DeHart blogs here.

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poetry: andrew hubbard – the five year plan

The Five Year Plan

I’m in the full church
For Cathy’s wedding.
Groom’s side, third row, aisle seat.

She walks past me
With the poise of a princess
Looking every inch the swimsuit model
She was until she became pregnant.
And whether that was an accident
Only one person will ever really know.

But I’m pretty sure how I’d place my bet.

Eyes that once spoke of love,
Lips that once loved
Now speak a silent warning
So clear my testicles contract:

“Don’t say anything.
Don’t mess up my day.
Why are you even here?”

The maid of honor
Told me last week
She said to Cathy,
“Do you love him?”
And Cathy replied, “I don’t know.
Sometimes maybe. It doesn’t really matter.”

Ten’ll get you twenty
I have her on the rebound
Within five years.
You just have to wait
For things to come around.

But Oh-Sweet-Jesus
Not for a shovel full of diamonds
Would I even try to survive
What they’re going to put each other through
In those five years.
It would make hell seem like
A week in Maui.

So: man up—
Do you want the bet or not?

~

Here’s where to find Andrew Hubbard

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poetry: john tustin – frying potatoes and onions

FRYING POTATOES AND ONIONS

I woke up and coughed my disease into the sink
And then I pissed and brushed my teeth.

It was when I started frying potatoes and onions,
Potatoes I cubed and an onion I sliced in this same room
Where I now sit and type,
That I began to think about you again,
For the third time that morning.
We were in my old apartment and it was after one A.M.
You were hungry and I made you a bacon and egg sandwich
The way my grandmother used to make one for me on Sunday morning
When I stayed at her house as a teenager.
You were so grateful, so filled with happiness
That I was doing something that is really so small
Compared to what I would be willing to do for you
And you kept saying how delicious it was,
Us warm and still vibrating from our hours
Going back and forth in bed.

Every object in the room brings a memory,
Every toss and turn in bed brings flames of fetid anger
Simmering in my stomach.
Now the rain has stopped and the fog is rolling in
But never enough that I cannot still see you
Delighting in every moment with me and steeling yourself
For when time would suspend our moments for another week
Or two.

It feels as if you are as dead as my grandmother
Or my mother
Instead of just gone from me and me alone
And when I think of you all that exists is mourning
Because it is still so new.
The potatoes, the onions, the spices
Clench themselves at the pit of my stomach
And all my eyes can see are things that are not here
And all my heart can feel
Is a phantom pain for the love we had
That you let suffer and die
All for the sake of the congruity
Of a false and moldy
Paradigm.

So I went back to bed,
Coughing again,
And wishing
For another night
Where you were still alive in my life,
Oblivious to your secrets, your artifice,
And the fraud of your extended silence

 

~

find John Tustin here

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POETRY: ROBIN WYATT DUNN – I FOUND YOU IN AMERICA

I found you in America

it’s Methodism
A religion
A thousand years of hate
and love
and middling piano notes

it’s your own philosophy
it’s Jesus
and all of his child rape
it’s the Moon
it’s God

it’s a day in America
with everything that comes with it
it’s your boss
and his dick
it’s the road
and it’s Frisbee

it’s Jesus again!
and it’s more Jesus.

It’s where you live.
Underneath Jesus.
Underneath love.

It’s a ludicrous paradigm of revelations
it’s bad porn.

it’s a long drive
with country relatives

it’s a long whiskey
and a long night

give me the long night
and the long whiskey

and tell me everything’s gonna be fine
Hunter S Thompson fine
heavily armed
and heavily medicated
and beautiful

perkily titted
and innocent
and dancing
under the influence of drugs
one of the dances your ancestors might have done

wearing a chiffon tutu
and making your lips into a delicate “O”

it’s rambunctious
it’s mysterious
it’s Methadone
and Method Acting
it’s love
it’s mine

I give you mine
and you give me yours
on the playground
after the fiesta
after all the suns have set
and all the televisions have been turned off
and the movie theaters have shut down
and New York has been turned off
and Washington is only a rumor

where wolves
and vagrants
and small burger joints
coalesce into beautiful oil paintings
where beggars nod philosophy
and beat poets
scream into the wilderness about their mothers

and I found you.

I found you in America
where I lost you too, the next day

I found you with a gun
and then, I found you with another gun
and then, I found you with my gun.

this is my gun
and this is my gun
and this is my gun, again

holy
mediocre
nearby

the visage of a saint
wearing mushrooms
in Slovakia
or Slovenia
a Sorb
with a locket
and a woman’s voice
and a god’s eyes

language is my gun
a thousand fields
and a thousand nights
Arabian and otherwise
Czechoslovakian
Albanian
Zulu

Give me the Zulu
and give me the House of Saud
Give me all of China
Give me Japan
I’m big in Japan.

Give me Jerusalem
and Palestine
and all places which have two names
or three

give me the cheeseburger
and take me to Turtle Island
where I have Wind in My Hair
And Dances With AssWipes
and all of the Lakota Wisdom
Shining over my Jalopy
With Jake and Fred
and Elmer Fudd
high as kites in a cheap motel
wondering when the sun will set
so we can go skiing

give me the moonlight
and give me the deliverance
I am the deliverance of the moonlight
no longer American, or white
no longer strictly conscious
but subject to the interference of an ancestral voice

speaking from the darkness

the shaman speaks in the ridiculous darkness
a ridiculous darkness which is both real and unreal
humorous and terrifying
where all lovers come to die
and all movies come to be born
in the caveman Saturn of the dawn
around your arms

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POETRY: MICHAEL BARTELT – GRANTS, NM

Grants, NM

I remember coming home in the evening
to a pregnant wife carrying our first.
Worked in the Uranium mines
at the time, about all there was to do
other than pump gas
and paid twice as much,
a no brainer—
made $6 an hour
with a daughter on the way.
Plus, at the gas station,
no one ever told you
you’re an American hero,
you’re helping the Cold War effort,
you’re a patriot.

No one ever told us anything
about the dangers of standing knee high
in water containing uranium run-off,
wearing paper masks among the yellow dust
filling the exhaust fan air, cleaning
the uranium off hopeless air filters—
masks around our necks
because they’d been clogged.

The inspectors from the government
never got out of their trucks, and supervisors
had us barricade the unsafe areas, go back in
when the inspectors went back home
to their wives and kids in clean shirts.

I went home everyday in a yellow-caked shirt.
My wife threw it in with the rest of the laundry.
Our daughter came out with no hips…

And it’s 50 years later, and we won the Cold War,
but my wife and I both have tumors on our lungs.
That’s just the price we pay for National Security.
And it’s no consolation that the Navajos had it worst.

I almost felt what it was like to be Indian
when all my friends died
and the town became a wasteland.
One buddy of mine shot himself—
poor guy said he didn’t wanna be in a diaper.

The biggest tumor of them all is the stockpile
of 4,760 nuclear warheads, the national monument
to injustice, death, cancer, Depends, and terror—
the price we pay for National Security.

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