January through March 2003 ~ Volume 11
Publisher D. Menendez, EIC Jim Christ
Editors Janet Kenny & Ani Gjika - Joe Carcel Ghost Editor
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streetcorner |
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John Eivaz |
| through yellow traffic hammond
organs swell the brass, muted against it in all its orange, sears the cymbals, melts them down to their sizzle so the WALK/DON'T WALK takes a solo. I'm so preoccupied but still as you lift the laughing Diet Pepsi over the choir-y pedestrians I have this urge to yelp "Encore! Brava! WOWEE!" catch you in mid-mousy-sip because here you are, you who squeeze sounds from me when we're naked sounds unlike the pop ostinato chorus of the streets, music of my thighs and piped through my mouth, anatomical rubbish heap anointed by sweat, by a set of rapid glances as you enjoy me your chant obscure between my legs gamelan rhythm sonata form sheets of sound solos to yourself with me needing this music stuttering aria spontaneous playback uncritical listening motion in our music no more WALK/DON'T WALK go without doubting the fire of a setting sun combustible behind skyscrapers (liquified now, lumps in the cymbals, cooled by cola on moist lips, road gone rubato, buttocks accent, simultaneous brief staccato, rapid descent through a gong's orgasm), didn't we clutch without hands in the climax? last night's music against music, free jazz dual body combos playing together through to silence. then drums, bright charango plucked over sirens and the whoosh of the street below, last night, and now you toss the empty in a trashcan. we hug and kiss, hug and kiss and squeeze together on the street and everone must walk around us, hey we're in a movie, it's almost corny, but there's that flashback to the night before, and keeping it integral to the plot I grab your ass right there on the corner, I see that gong once again, the mallet is lifted, the sax blows, bell uplifted, skirt rises, WALK/DON'T WALK - what a choice, like daisies or puppies, here come the mandolins, I'll be your theremin baby, but you have to touch me, slide me over the jungle of your tom tom congas, your soda pop piano, I make those otherworldly 60s sounds like I'm possessed by memories difficult to detail, urban improvisations, and the feel of you under your clothes, midtowns in busy times. Poem copyright © John Eivaz 2002.
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