Blue Jazz Bubbles

Wild spring vibrations
Cry out for pollination
But it’s not our will.

Hourglass laughs gaily:
Feel it giggle through your hands
This humorous pulse.

Bluesman blows his horn.
Strugglin’ in the midday sun.
False notes fall away.

Sweet breeze in summer:
Wind flowing in the speakers
What a perfect mix!

Fire burns at the root:
Blind man hungrily swallows
Oversight has no cure.

Sudden summer storm!
Violinist falls to her knees.
Sacred sounds unleashed.

Ah, too many notes
In middle of the 8-track
Mozart up on trial.

Leaves fall in autumn.
As does he when he awakes
Driftin' from the roots.

Anxious shadows fall:
She shucks her corn on the porch
But not the feeling.

The Duke orchestrates
flickering fireflies at dusk
and other preludes.

Starry fugues in space
Wine glasses with no bottoms
O Bacchian tease!

Moonlight on water
Poseidon's lovely daughter
Glowing for no one.

Diver submerged deep
Trapped and drowning in the reeds
Jazz bubbles surface.

Ballads at midnight
Her eyes touch skeleton keys
Still unexorcised.

Wet nurse patters pane
But he’s not patient enough
To get the healing.

Avalanche of snow
Half-buried soul fully now
What flowers in spring?

Lonesome whistle blows
Tears fertilize the dry earth
With heart-shaped clovers.

Veil lifted by wind
Marketer tries to market.
Nothing much to see

Dawn arrives through fog.
Mist relieved of her dewties.
Blue is on the way.

Your Red Robe

Walk with me to church, my love.
And I know you are suffering,
As I am, too.
And it seems so real.
The things we do.
In this church.
In these coils.
And it's not something that will pass.
Like a mood.
That spoils.
Or something to be reviewed.
Earned.
Or repented.

Your red robe.
My black boots.

Fall with me, my love
In this grass
In this light
On this day.

Let us not think of mortality
Or loss of soul.
Let us go.
Where the immortals go.

Let me take you down, my love
To the church.
With no walls.
Deep in the ground.
In this grass.
On this day.
In this light.

And let us not bow to false idols no no.
Nor put too much stock in this shadowy show.
Not on this day.
Not in this grass.
Not in this light.

And let it go--
Your red robe.
My big boots.
These church walls.
And let us merge.
With the immortals.
Here in the grass!
On this day.
In this light.

Oh, look to your right.
Do you see Eliot with his spoons.
And do you hear the thunder?
And Ecclesiastes, too.
And forget those lost shades
Headin' the wrong way.
They're just shadows anyway.
Cast by the tree.
Oh how could they've missed it?
Schumann, Chopin and the rest.
This day!
This grass!
This light!

Let it go!
Let it go!
Your red robe!
My big boots!
Let 'em go!
Here in the grass!
On this day!
In this light!

Nude we come.
Nude we go.
And nude we must be!
On this day.
In this grass.
In this light.

Oh climb the tree with me, my love
Do you see him?
It's Wordsworth.
With your red robe.
Hanging.
From one of his limbs
And my boots too,
And let us climb.
And let us play.
Higher and Higher.
Faster and Faster.
All the way.
To the highest limb
We race.
We climb.
We race.
We climb.
Til our hearts almost burst
As we nose our way.
Into the roots.
That is he.
That is you.
That is me.
And let us merge!
On this day.
In this tree.
In this light.

Can you feel the surge?

Softer now
softer
softer
deeper
into the ground.
Can you hear the light
That is no light?
Can you touch the sound
That is no sound.
On this day.
In this grass.
In this light.

And is that Walt
There in the grass?
Do you feel him in here
With us?
In this merge.
In this surge.
In this grass.
In this light.

And deeper still;
Oh do you see?
Coleridge playing with
his watery figures.
And let us go down.
Into this lake.
And wash ourselves.
On this day.
In this lake.
In this light.

And let us purge.

And softer still
Can you feel
The seed
That is in all things.

And look out on the water.
It's Blake.
Walking.
Dancing.
Still.
On the water.
In this now fading light.
That is this day.

And there he is
There he goes.
Receding.
Further and further away.
And now he is
Your red robe.
And it's one long cinematic fade
And a lasting silhouette.
Your dancing red robe--
The sunset.

In this merge.
In this dusk.
In this light.
On this day.

I'm Not Seeing Her Anymore

Not in the trembling light
Not in the shaking hands
Not in the first hint of night
Not in the aching sands.
Not in the cruel promise known as Spring
Not in the wildflowers that bloom
Not in the absence in all things.
Not in the things that leave too soon.
Not in the sunlight too harsh to see
Not in the phases of the moon.
Not in the wild humidity.
Not in the shoes thrown across the room
Not in the wind that growls
Not in a hat slightly askew
Not in a child that howls
Not in the purr we once knew.

Not on the big screen
Not on this tiny stage.
Not in the melody
That won't fade away.
Not in the suspension of Time
Not in the emptiness of Space.
Not in the tease of some rhyme.
Not in the lines of a face.

Not in the lovers
Holding hands.
Not in the stolen kiss
We know as Romance.
Not on a night like this.

Not in Fall's sweet sting.
Not in the falling leaves.
Not in what blows behind all things.
Not in the spider.
Not in the web.
Not in the rider.
Trapped in the ebb.
Not in the pleasure
Not in the rain.
Not in the things we use to measure.
Not in the drops.
Not in the train.
That will not stop.
Not in the eye of poor Cyclops.

Not in the truth.
Not in the lies.
Not in the tooth.
Not in the eyes.
Not in the razor
Not in the thigh
Not in the gazer
Squinting at the sky.
Not in the cricket.
Not in the song.
Not in the thicket.
Not in the night that seems too long.
Not in the death
Not in the rise
Not in the breath
Of a dewy sunrise.

Not in the water
Not in the air
Not in the daughter
Not in strands of hair
Not in the chirp of a bird
Not in the hiss of a snake
Not in the unspoken word
Not in the mist coming off the lake.
Not in the aroma of rising dough
Not in the promise of a distant shore
Not in the things we could not know.
Not in the steam.
Not in the fog.
Not in my dream.
Not in the wag of a dog.
Not in the creak in the floor
That cries What for?

No, I'm not seeing her anymore, oh no.
We stopped seeing each other long ago.

The Last Marketable Thing

Well all right then
It is finally done.
And they partied in the streets.
From Dubai to Boston.
Of course, there’s still gazpacho in Spain.
And the rain falls mainly on the plains, acidly.
And noodles in Japan.
And tea in England, placidly.
And eclairs in France.
And borscht in Russia, happily.
And falafels in Lebanon.
And so on and so on.
They've all been added to the Mcmenu.
And there are pieces of the Pyramids
Going to the highest bids.
On display at Ebay--
For me and you.

And still there's something missing--
For we all want it.
And surely it could set us free--
The Last Marketable Thing.

And without much coercion i suppose
They widened their eyes
And thinned their noses
And it was a great surprise
When they gave up their turbans
And thankfully kneeled and posed
For the one true religion.

And maybe you've got what we need--
The Last Marketable Thing.

Breasts were enlarged.
Penises, too.
All fat surgically removed.
And it's one fine melting stew--
A cauldron of pure joy.
All around.
And American football in every town.
And you know the Brazilians
Will definitely come around.
And it’s one shiny diamond.
Leading us all home.
And everyone is in fashion.
Wearing the same things.
The whole word singing:
My name is.
My name is.
My name is.
The whole world shouting:
I’ll be baaaaaaack.
And everyone is beautiful.
And toeing the line.
For their piece of the pie.

And still we seek--
The Last Marketable Thing.

Naturally, it wasn’t easy.
And many brave souls fell.
And such harmony is never created
Without a little hell.
But everybody is cooperating.
To create the great global dome
To protect us from the fallout
And the dark cloud above.

Certainly, nothing is perfect.
The men are still fighting the women
For superiority.
And the children are losing their battle
Against conformity.
And, of course, there are pockets of gangs
All around.
But as long as they are killing each other;
There’s no need to raise a sound
And of course those French that still remain
Keep us in stitches.
With their stand-up routines.
So cute and anachronistic.
But other than that.
We’re exactly the same.
Inside and out.

And yet it's still missing--
The Last Marketable Thing.

And the Masters of Industry
Are getting worried about paranoid rumors
That there are unsatisifed consumers
And that there’s nothing left to buy and sell.
So they send in the Men in Black
Or was it the two cats from Dragnet?
Who surely know very well
How to find The Last Marketable Thing.

And they look in the streets
And they look in the Ivory Towers
And they peek under sheets.
And they point their cameras
At those still too dumb to get rich.
In a frantic search
For The Last Marketable Thing.

And they take several in for questioning:
Workers, bums, gangsters, madmen
But all they can do is speak in tongues
And provide no clues at all-
To unlock the mystery of
The Last Marketable Thing.

And we all are subjected to body searches
And perhaps we have it concealed
And they probe high and low
But nothing is revealed.
Just hollow holes
Where once a bluebird perched.
And it's still missing--
The Last Marketable Thing.

For even though we have it all
There persist these nasty rumors
That neither the Marketers nor Consumers
Are satisfied
And whatever it was-
Has either flown or died--
And perhaps it's best not to think at all
About The Last Marketable Thing.

And be happy.
Everyone.
Be happy.