AN IDEA OF IMPROVISATION WITH THE UNCERTAINTY PRINCIPLE—Take X
bluesy notions of a freer jazz with ashes buried under some trees by a ¿bob? cat in a different key
These are amazing:
I quietly shrug and enter
what are not shrubs
but a bramble of edged petals
that scratch and itch
with the promise of
bluish fruit which could perhaps
—beloved—be
chromatic points
but not a pentatonics
as in The Blackberries
singing of an ache
one might lapse
into and risk crimson.
I am still.
I am still seeking
not knowing
if a light blue note later
the hidden position
of a thorn section
could pierce the i
or for a time mitigate
with a pound or
a hug once dug
by Kearney from a pond
in a Pointillist poem
deep tidal desires
which beg tailoring
by Cécile or Mackey
or Cecil asking about
fruit & thorn being
both elegy & ode
to what they signify
as we try to caress
“Le Front Cache”
or even the knees
of a more natural man
or Haitian woman.
Assume our souls
are a handy myth
—is our speech
a mere performance
—beyond the velocity
of lossy phrases—
to model or yodel emotions
or evoke Harryette mulling
over a syntax of velvet
deities that Apophenia—
our supposedly fun diva—
mimics to bray or splay
as wounds on walls
around Gardens of Truth
but not as velour
as the most crimson cry?
I am still.
I am still quieting
which I can’t explain
but does this approach
the mouth feel of a trio
Moten leaves
to shade or abrade
my parakeet feathers
—to color such loss
or what feels lost to elegy
unless I begin to dig
my berried desire
with a silence bladed
nearly to the point
of a sound science?
