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)

A TASTE OF IMPROVISATION AT NEWPORT

a DJ Reneg8d remix

Cranberry candles and cognac in crystal,

Satin pajamas and fingerpads that tickle,

Sweet tea from tumblers in summerlong swigs,

Church of dark chocolate, almonds and figs . . .

Raindrops syncopate with Coltrane

On the radio as I await you with six

Roses—Sarasvati—with petals velvet

And curious as your fingers in my

Whiskers tracing them as Farsi script

On a Sufi chin. Your irises—two lively

Kittens or dew drops sparkling dark and

Bright reflections almost conductive as

Copper wires melted down from old tea

Kettles caressed by candlelight & steam.

And could any radif of rain ever uncurl

Warm as your tongue in my ear, as your

Woolen scratchy scarves or the cobalt

Mittens you knitted us last winter? Oh

Brown-skin paradox, pecan & panther, oh

Paper lotus blooms—your hands twin

Packages of chamois shudder. I wish to be

Tied & untied by your fingers rising

Up as rain’s light to hatch these lines

With the knotty function of nylon guitar

String now fretted into fishnet. Suppose

These poses I anticipate surrendering to

Aren’t merely ordered by their blue Key:

A refrain from Rumi, but also perhaps by a

Few drops trickling down the left side

Of my arm into tulip petals. Please dream

My fingers’ jasmine messages for their

Favorite shoulder blade as June kissed

Things—soon to chrysalis & bloom.

Bangles on forearms and daisies on dresses,

Lip gloss that lingers and fingertip caresses,

Coltrane on track one with chords that swing,

Lightning that hints at what evening may bring . . .

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 might this be rising alone,

whose sapphire necklace of loose knitted notes

circling the sky past dusk1? Whose low hum quotes

from the clinking undertones of a thrown

bottle that sinks or floats in Becks Run’s stream

& sighs “If I could” through its whistled woes,

pulling bipolar box cars in its flow

to exit St. Clair Village under steam2?

Oh Phyllis, how your lips puckered with flair,

barely brushing my naked neck those nights

with May lilacs of radio melody

 before June’s rain. How did we miss your prayer’s

spiral into sheer flutter3—your silk kite

tugging at its cord, dying 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