Three Haiku

 Here are three haiku for the algorithm—

1. 

Ramadan—

the weight of the sun

on his back

2.

barely

hanging on

in this elevator

plum blossoms

3.

floating into

the cracked hospice window

church bells

You need another lover like you need a hole in your head (another revision)

 BAM!!!

The Idea of Improvisation at Newport '61

(With apologies to Oscar Hammerstein and John Coltrane)

Butter on biscuits and denim on dresses,

Perfume on pillows and long sassy tresses,

Sweet tea from tumblers in summertime swigs,

These are a few things a cat like me digs.

Raindrops & fingers follow Trane

On the radio of my car, while

Roses fill an empty seat

And mirror your smile, white as

Whiskers curling

On a Sufi’s chin. Curious 

Kittens, they favor your

Bright eyes, those twin

Copper lamps, twin

Kettles of cinnamon.

And what else might feel

Warm as your hands? Not knitted

Woolen scarves, or those red

Mittens you wore last winter. Lost

Brown legs, where are you?

Paper bag brown, rapt

Packages of promise. Are you

Tied up on the phone, caught

Up in some tryst

With a new lover like a

String of pawned pearls?

These questions vex—

Are mere roses sufficient?

A light drizzle falls, a

Few loose pearls 

Of rain dissolve in my hand, as

My fingers recall your

Favorite place to be kissed—

Things they might coax you to say.

Cranberry candles and cognac in crystal,

Flannel pajamas and kisses that tickle,

Feeding you chocolate with raisins and figs,

These are a few things I really do dig.

Final version?

A CRY OF IMPROVISATION AS AN ALGORITHM OF THE BLUES

Although this 

ain’t the ballad 

of a wounded boy,

tonight a needle 

descends into 

a record’s black skin—

the beak of a dove 

winging into a window—

until we hear

in the alto horn

extra stress 

in his moan of “Testimony.”

But listen—no matter 

how high the moon—

could even Charlie Parker

chart the true burdens of birds

into “Ornithology”?

Even if in other takes

Yardbird stays—

and doesn’t leave

his wife & infant son

as autumn 

litters a lawn,

could the eyes

of a chirping bird

ever urge

the square pegs 

of his arpeggios

into a cobalt whole?

Let’s be clear—

blues ain‘t nothing 

he loves or nothing 

that ever loved him,

just some jive frequencies

of water, or sky, or 

a type of bandanna

tied across his brow. 

But if nothing aqua

tinted his lungs

could a moaned “No”

ever twist his breath

into epistemology?

Joy claims birdsong proves

the futility of words

since what human could improve

its contrafactual flow?

Some nights 

even the moon appears

to take notes 

as Parker breaks a fractal

off their phrase—

then flattens & sharpens

one eighth into a swollen vein.

This paradox feels hypodermic,

a beaked flame of bird-speak

beneath a spoon’s burned skin,

but let’s say the song ain’t over.

I don’t know why

some cats try to pull

from Parker’s tone 

as much wit as Witness,

while some want the warp 

& woof of the Blues 

to make a square bandanna

for flagging down the yellow taxis 

of hip axioms.

But I do know

how many claim

“Bird lives”

in this address 

of ghost notes

unexpected as ketchup 

on corn flakes.

Of course imagination 

can flare into a faith

so even the hands

of an abandoned boy 

could be seen waving

outside the window 

while Bird mines a horn’s 

phonographic memory—

which cannot choose 

what it does or doesn’t save.

“Take a phrase, 

then fracture it”—

he might recipher

his solo to say 

until even the ballad

of a wounded dove

seems to resolve 

into ontology—

but does that free

two slender hands

to bend the band 

into a bandage?

Night Train redux

BETCHA BY GOLLY WOW

for Phyllis Hyman

Whose blue wail is this glittering alone

as sapphire necklace of tight knitted notes

scaling the sky past dusk1? Humming to quote

some lush echo, grazing kisses off stone

faces which bob or float in Southside streams

& sigh “If I could” for their half-sipped woes,

pulling bipolar box cars in their flow

to exit St. Clair Village under steam2.

But Phyllis, then {your lips} puckered with flair,

{bare}ly brushing our naked neck late nights

with May feathers of whistled {melody}

that became {June rain}. What still splits our air

daring to flutter3 or dip? What silk kite

straining at its cord, aching to twist free?

——————————————-

1 last train her mascara still running

2June evening  between police lights  fireflies

3 on the shoulder of a pall bearer  a butterfly