AN IDEA OF IMPROVISATION WITH THE UNCERTAINTY PRINCIPLE—”Take X
towards a freer jazz with ashes buried under some trees by a ¿dead? cat in a different key
say we shrug and enter
what are not shrubs
but surely feel nearly full
of sharp edged petals
which seem to shield fruit
that could perhaps function
—beloved—as chromatic points
tho not in the pentatonics
of The Black Raspberries
would we lapse
into a longing to grasp
and risk crimson pinches
not knowing
if a light note later
the hidden position
of a thorn section
might tincture i
or for a time mean
some conjugation
of tidal desire dug by Kearney
from a Pointillist tone poem
of a pond which needed
tailoring on the hems by Cécile
or Nate or Cecil pleating
theories of jazz
we failed to scan
from “Le Front Cache”
or even the knees
of a more natural man
or Haitian woman, yet
kept modeling or yodeling—
our speech still a performance
—beyond the velocity
of wavy phrases
or sleepy Harriet mulling
over a syntax of velvet
deities which Apophenia—
our mellow diva—
dreams to bray or splay
how bananas it could be
if they’re yellow berries
or genetic diagrams
guarding walls around
Gardens of Truth
but maybe just feel like felt
under a trio of Winter Leaves
where some shade in or abrade
those feathery parakeet feelings
which color what appears
to change or even changes
to appear if we sigh
then aim to measure
our berried desire
with a green silence
bladed nearly to the point
of a sound science?
AN IDEA OF IMPROVISATION
WITH A MAN CARRYING A THING
(for Roy Hargrove)
A blue melody means to atone
in only one sense.
Illustration: the scale
of a man’s shape on stage
means what he carries
attunes our eyes.
Say he notes the moon
as a whole.
Say he tongues his muted horn
like a missing tooth
seeking to mark
a single valve as key.
Say in moonlight the scales of tuna
can seem a silvery blues.
Should we then resist the sense
one feels him weave
into the yellow & blue tails
of the tune as needs
(muted notes almost perceived
as written melodies,
a certain scale of uncertain roots)
air moving past a reed to ease
the Harmon into harmony
with a thing whose valves
might open & close all night
or hurry a heart
as the ghost of Autumn Leaves
on a key breeze of cursive notes
at once less tuned than assumed?
We must not seek to soak
in such cobalt assaults all night,
but what cratered moon
doesn’t mean to carry
some “Definition of Blue”
beyond the empty stage
he leaves.
