Long Improvisations Poems
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He was a cowboy problem child
rescued by a mendicant sage brush sorcerer
resulting in his remembering everything
flawlessly insolently permanantly
birth death life things in space have a beer
owner of his own head at last
thanks to whiskey tainted improvisations
and the use of springs and levers
in order to bring the Almighty down to earth
for a patch job on his many severed limbs
he slept on a bed of maguey spines
combed his tumbleweed hair over the burn spots
and tattooed his many and fecund scars into
the outlines of zippers and pockets
Tex Lester was a lariat twirling minstrel
and undefeated Popsicle stick swordsman
subject to a chronic howling for pootang
Tex took me under his leathery wings
together we praised the pop up toaster
and often spoke of mechanics and luck
taught me to look at girls all anew
in the little red school house by the cactus patch
Miss LobowskI beat off my attempts
at humping her leg during her class in ethics
as if a description of total damnation
could repair the broken mosaic of attention
Tex would implore with the tact of a scorpion
madam cover your eyes in the name of decency
what could I do but wake the dead
and digress distressingly in the dirt
a heartfelt rain making non-sequitir
well kids are full of surprises
uninhibited by mystery or murderous rage
complete they are in a different way
but the more Miss Lobowski's convex mariachis
bucked and danced under her wet serape
the more it popped into Tex's ten gallon head
to teach her an old cowboy rope trick
round and round went his cowboy lariat
the desire to repeat pleasure unfortunately
is the desire to repeat it exactly endlessly
and that's the problem the big problem
at the museum of horrible deaths
you grab their ears and whisper
rest your head on a cloud angel
and hope they don't end up on top
of a truckload of flattened automobiles
he went crazy on her flesh
let loose his gila monster on her blazing ****
and together they began robbing banks
this is going to cost me my diploma
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
KEROUAC THE WORD SPEAKS JAZZ/Tony Adamo
Spoken Word All in Caps for Better Reading While in Recording Studio/10/14/23
THE JAZZ COOL AND BEBOP MUSICIANS MADE MUSIC THEIR OWN/
THE BEAT GENERATION WAS A NONCONFORMIST CULTURE MOVEMENT OF THE 1950’S/
WRITERS, POETS SUCH AS JACK KEROUAC, NEAL CASSADY, ALLEN GINSBERG, DIANE DE PARMA, WILLIAM S. BURROUGH, AND PHILIP LAMANTIA, AND A WHOLE BEAT GENERATION OF AUTHORS WHO TOLD YOU LIKE IT IS/
INNOVATIONS IN THE COOL OF WORD SPEAK POETRY/ THE BEATS WERE A LITERARY SUBCULTURE THAT WAS DEEPLY ROOTED IN THE TOTAL REJECTION OF STANDARD NARRATIVE VALUES/
MAN, HARD LIQUOR, DRUGS, AND MAD SEX FUELED THE BACKBONE OF THE BEATS ALONG WITH THE HARMONIC SYSTEM OF BEPOP IMPROVISATIONS INFUSED INTO THEIR WORLD OF THE NEW POETRY SPOKEN WORD/
THE BEAT GENERATION’S MOVERS AND THINKERS HIPED THE WORLD TO A NEW WAY OF KNOWLEDGE WITH FLOWING THOUGHTS AND IDEAS ABOUT PERSONAL FREEDOM WITHOUT GOVERNMENT INTERVENTION/
SO, DIG, LIKE THE BEBOPPERS STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS ON THE BANDSTAND, IN PARTICULAR, CHARLIE BIRD PARKER IMPROVISED HORN SOLOS/
SO WAS IT FOR THE BEATS' FAST AND SLOW MUSIC TEMPOS IN THEIR WORD DELIVERY/
TAKING MELODY BEBOP MUSIC LINES, IMPROVISATION ON WORDS, AND INCORPORATING THE SOUNDS INTO THE BEAT THINKING AND WRITINGS/
MAN, THESE JAZZ POETS WERE DEEPLY ROOTED IN THE ARRANGEMENT OF JAZZ WORD SPEAK, BEBOP JUMPING FREESTYLE IN WORD WRITING TO PAGE AND BEYOND/
NOT ALL BEATS WERE JAZZHEADS/ BUT JAZZ MUSIC IN THE 1950s GAVE VOICE TO A LOT OF THE BEATS' POETRY AND WRITINGS/ LIKE DIG KEROUAC ON THE STEVE ALLEN TV SHOW TO SEE AND HEAR WHAT I MEAN/
LIKE IT IS BABY, LAWRENCE FERLINGHETTI, KEROUAC, AND GINSBERG, WERE KICKIN THEIR WORD SPEAK WRITINGS WITH A BEBOP INFLUENCE AND A MARIJUANA, HIGH BALL HIGH/
THE BEAT GENERATION FREED THEMSELVES IN THEIR WRITINGS AND LIVES FROM THE SHACKLES OF WESTERN THINKING IN SEEKING NEW WAYS TO EXPRESS THEIR TIMES ABOUT LOVE, LIFE, DEATH AND POETRY.
Glasses tinkle and there's a steady murmur of
conversation as the club slowly fills to near capacity.
He sits nursing his vodka tonic, waiting for the show
to begin.
The house lights dim and the stage is spot-lit
as the musicians take their places. Chatter modulates
to rapt attention as the first notes drift into the air.
The band has chosen a ballad, 'Stella by Starlight,'
and the familiar strains bring claps of recognition
from the audience. He closes his eyes to concentrate
on the music, pleased they are playing her favorite tune.
The moment is so powerful she is right there with him,
swaying to the rhythm, nestled in his arms,
light as a feather.
It's a long, gentle rendition, almost twelve minutes.
The band takes solos, drawing every nuance from
the old standard, their improvisations bold and fresh.
As they return to the melody the tune gradually
dissolves into silence.
The patrons respond with polite and sustained applause.
When he opens his eyes he finds himself surrounded
by dancers, lovers in each others' arms,
cradled in his own embrace.
**********
...a prose poem celebrating a jazz standard.
If you look at life it is an entanglement of garter snakes
Heaps piled together without realising where to start
All of a sudden a head peeps and slithers out smoothly
Problems of life are magnanimously overbearing
The thought of untying the knots can blister the veins
But when you slowly open one knot at a time,
It is unbelievably so smooth that you need to
Flatten that silly, over imaginary bulging head
With a piping hot frying pan! Make use of your brain-box!
Problems and failures are man's best enemies
Failures can wreck our lives and drown us
But when the toughest person gives his rough hand, grab it!
Don't be wary and judgemental whether to hold or not
Rely on your instincts, they're always dependable
When two discuss the same failure together and analyse it
Blaming not on destiny but on minute flaws of the self
Give the broadest smile to work on your new improvisations
Your constructive journey has just begun! A new approach!
The ruthless plans of destiny are not in your hands
But the choices you make are in your hands! Choose well!
FIRST
October 29, 2015
Contest: Life According to Balveen
Sponsor: Silent One
...a prose poem
Glasses tinkle and there's a steady murmur of
conversation as the club slowly fills to near capacity.
He sits nursing his vodka tonic, waiting for the show to begin.
The house lights dim and the stage is spot-lit
as the musicians take their places. Chatter modulates
to rapt attention as the first notes drift into the air.
The band has chosen a ballad, 'Stella by Starlight,'
and the familiar strains bring claps of recognition
from the audience. He closes his eyes to concentrate
on the music, pleased they are playing her favorite tune.
The moment is so powerful she is right there with him,
swaying to the rhythm, nestled in his arms, light as a feather.
It's a long, gentle rendition, almost twelve minutes.
The band takes solos, drawing every nuance from
the old standard, their improvisations bold and fresh.
As they return to the melody the tune gradually
dissolves into silence.
The patrons respond with polite and sustained applause.
When he opens his eyes he finds himself surrounded
by dancers, lovers in each others' arms,
cradled in his own embrace.
...a prose poem
Glasses tinkle and there's a steady murmur of
conversation as the club slowly fills to near capacity.
He sits nursing his vodka tonic, waiting for the show to begin.
The house lights dim and the stage is spot-lit
as the musicians take their places. Chatter modulates
to rapt attention as the first notes drift into the air.
The band has chosen a ballad, 'Stella by Starlight,'
and the familiar strains bring claps of recognition
from the audience. He closes his eyes to concentrate
on the music, pleased they are playing her favorite tune.
The moment is so powerful she is right there with him,
swaying to the rhythm, nestled in his arms, light as a feather.
It's a long, gentle rendition, almost twelve minutes.
The band takes solos, drawing every nuance from
the old standard, their improvisations bold and fresh.
As they return to the melody the tune gradually
dissolves into silence.
The patrons respond with polite and sustained applause.
When he opens his eyes he finds himself surrounded
by dancers, lovers in each others' arms,
cradled in his own embrace.
...a prose poem
Glasses tinkle and there's a steady murmur of
conversation as the club slowly fills to near capacity.
He sits nursing his vodka tonic, waiting for the show to begin.
The house lights dim and the stage is spot-lit
as the musicians take their places. Chatter modulates
to rapt attention as the first notes drift into the air.
The band has chosen a ballad, 'Stella by Starlight,'
and the familiar strains bring claps of recognition
from the audience. He closes his eyes to concentrate
on the music, pleased they are playing her favorite tune.
The moment is so powerful she is right there with him,
swaying to the rhythm, nestled in his arms, light as a feather.
It's a long, gentle rendition, almost twelve minutes.
The band takes solos, drawing every nuance from
the old standard, their improvisations bold and fresh.
As they return to the melody the tune gradually
dissolves into silence.
The patrons respond with polite and sustained applause.
When he opens his eyes he finds himself surrounded
by dancers, lovers in each others' arms,
cradled in his own embrace.
...a prose poem
Glasses tinkle and there's a steady murmur of
conversation as the club slowly fills to near capacity.
He sits nursing his vodka tonic, waiting for the show
to begin.
The house lights dim and the stage is spot-lit
as the musicians take their places. Chatter modulates
to rapt attention as the first notes drift into the air.
The band has chosen a ballad, 'Stella by Starlight,'
and the familiar strains bring claps of recognition
from the audience. He closes his eyes to concentrate
on the music, pleased they are playing her favorite tune.
The moment is so powerful she is right there with him,
swaying to the rhythm, nestled in his arms,
light as a feather.
It's a long, gentle rendition, almost twelve minutes.
The band takes solos, drawing every nuance from
the old standard, their improvisations bold and fresh.
As they return to the melody the tune gradually
dissolves into silence.
The patrons respond with polite and sustained applause.
When he opens his eyes he finds himself surrounded
by dancers, lovers in each others' arms,
cradled in his own embrace.
Glasses tinkle and there's a steady murmur of
conversation as the club quickly fills to near capacity.
He sits nursing his vodka tonic, waiting for the show
to begin.
The house lights dim and the stage is spot-lit
as the musicians take their places. Chatter modulates
to rapt attention as the first notes drift into the air.
The band has chosen a ballad, 'My Funny Valentine'
and the familiar strains bring claps of recognition
from the audience. He closes his eyes to concentrate
on the music, pleased they are playing her favorite tune.
The moment is so powerful she is right there with him,
swaying to the rhythm, nestled in his arms,
light as a feather.
It's a long, gentle rendition, almost twelve minutes.
The band takes solos, drawing every nuance from
the old standard, their improvisations bold and fresh.
As they return to the melody the tune gradually
dissolves into silence.
The patrons respond with sustained applause.
When he opens his eyes he finds himself surrounded
by dancers, lovers in each others' arms,
cradled in his own embrace.
...a prose poem
Glasses tinkle and there's a steady murmur of
conversation as the club quickly fills to near capacity.
He sits nursing his vodka tonic, waiting for the show
to begin.
The house lights dim and the stage is spot-lit
as the musicians take their places. Chatter modulates
to rapt attention as the first notes drift into the air.
The band has chosen a ballad, 'My Funny Valentine'
and the familiar strains bring claps of recognition
from the audience. He closes his eyes to concentrate
on the music, pleased they are playing her favorite tune.
The moment is so powerful she is right there with him,
swaying to the rhythm, nestled in his arms,
light as a feather.
It's a long, gentle rendition, almost twelve minutes.
The band takes solos, drawing every nuance from
the old standard, their improvisations bold and fresh.
As they return to the melody the tune gradually
dissolves into silence.
The patrons respond with sustained applause.
When he opens his eyes he finds himself surrounded
by dancers, lovers in each others' arms,
cradled in his own embrace.