HEY, JAZZ POET

Hey, jazz poet
playing a hundred riffs
lending your Van Gogh ear
as if to carry the sound
of your tenor sax
though this gig's
long corridors
engaged with the voice
of a relaxed smooth warmth
in my instrument's choice
from an underground venue
of angel Ariel's song
of melody
or a funereal monody
embracing through us
touching our wounds
and words on the rebound
in our love found monitors
from our stormy chasms
and fathomless memory
that kick starts
former addicts of pop art
like Roy Lichtenstein
or Andy Warhol
playing us like Braque
or Picasso
with two part inventions
as in a organ toccata
or a cantata of Bach
beyond all music dreams,
phosphorescent viola sonatas
in a numinous rapture
of dilated relaxed concertos
as in a rapid stream Bax
for us
from an English chorus
during our culture's
ominous time
on earth's luminous
home planet
at a critic's rhyme
or a teaching time
of tribulation
reaching out
to hear a Russian symphony
or a piano sonata
of Scriabin
practiced from
over a spacious
and scrupulous introspection
deciphered by composers
from their unfinished notes
sharing with us
in Paris overlooking
a popular chorus line
not to be embarrassed
with augmented quotes
at a French music hall
from the bench of Offenbach
or at a flatly diminished ball
with Strauss' arty articulation
of a once voluminous
waltz cycle
now the avant-guard
is featured in part
from the philosopher - bard
with affirmations mirrored
from the faint words
on the corridors
of Saint Michael
in Bach, Mozart or Kierkegaard.