“Conservatory Jazz” Poem


Conservatory Jazz.

Neither a sun-boat
nor slave-ship. As much as fast speech
wrapped in fake fur and anger-lips kissing
a gold watch (this bug-hum called hip hop,

doggerel of calling each other dogs

and themselves the many martyred

christs of the American dream, Goldstein discovered

their lucky untalented ass and helped push them

through the choral gates of financial baptismal quarters of heaven that neither I nor

Robenstein nor Ahmad or a vodoo consultant may everever enter. Heaven)

can lower inhibitions
as can watching a film of intersecting nudes. Pornogreish the same

ratatat motions and choreographed studio annihilation.
Instead I kneel search, in knight-twilight for the music made by the nocturnal shade people who bent
ruined their tools and shovels into instruments and pulled, spat orchestras tilled
of the dry earth, the slave-ship

sun-ship music.

It is now nowhere to be found, not even under wreckage.
It is everywhere but nowhere fecund. How I 

of a heart swollen with its swallowed salt water

long to hear the cyclopean slave

sing of innocence to the discerning-eared audience of the nails in his feet.

That  was before Oedipa, Edisonia and Euphoria descended, covering the faces of drums. Adieu.

Replacing it all with bug-hum while citing that willy-nilly rap by Henry Ford, ”History is bunk”
Took a metroline from the Amsterdam banlieu

I went to the riverside conservatory, full of young musicians
to receive their diplomas in Jazz. I understood
why I never understood some jazz, and why I never
understood the fascination with Buddhism,
to be lake without desire.

*(but I could appreciate a fleurette africaine, sweet

as Yemen ghat-grass between my teeth, a love supreme on some weekends,

an Arkestra during the flood, in drought, a sunship. Perhaps some sketches

of spain, on paper not to be lit for warm feet. Some wretches to relate to,

None of those memories, dove-chariots drove to

or from the conservatory)
Intermissions, looking out
on the Dutch river. International students. A boy with an afro
has limitless variations on his fathers’ suites.
There are drinks afterwards. Couples. (I’m missing out.)

They are this generation,
Infinitely open minded and clean the way a polished deck
On an un-sinkable ship reflects the clouds, in the spaces clear

(of artillery) there is only room for light, and a mirror of lacquer-luster deck
reflects broad sky with its peel torn back by bromide that the harvest
dancers of the end of melodies threw into the heavens, to poison
heaven’s clouds mistaking her for the despised whitemen, the feeding
hands and property claims on the feeding bottoms. Apply scalpel.

Painters and musicians, poets all stand punished for pearly-snot elitism.

No one cared to break open the head of a record company executive
with a blunt saxophone, for all those inundations of rap

there was no bravery, no balls. They carry a padding and wiring that leaves

no room for archaic spooky words like lascivious, baroque

are my intolerable and incessant daydreams, as illegible as Ugaritic letters on clay easel,

 or ooga ooga ooh. I admired the houses gypsies built still in caves 

on Sacromonte with full view of Alhambra (before I went broke, to

live off Nour Alkamra). I dropped to my knees

as the old humming woman tended to her aloes and cacti.

I went there because of Lorca and wished I had stayed.

The young man with the afro is from Montpellier. His father had a sun-stroke, 

but had not yet cultivated Bob Marley’s wailing melanoma,

lives in Milano but will come to see the finale examinations.

I ask him what if a conservatory taught the music of the gypsies, would you
listen to the conservatory gypsy orchestras? Can they Cante Jondo?

Could the tanguedias of the Arabál be made with lit heels

and hellcry bandoneons here? I sneer in all words that come from

my mouth and not my hands. I am transparently a trickster

but my tricks are unbreakably obscure.

The conservatory jazzist sips his beer,

adjusts his contact lens and says no one was talking to me.

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