Walking Parker Home

Sweet beats of jazz impaled on slivers of wind Kansas Black Morning/ First Horn Eyes/ Historical sound pictures on New Bird wings People shouts/boys alto dreams/Tomorrow’s Gold belled pipe of stops and future Blues Times Lurking Hawkins/shadows of Lester/realization Bronze fingers – brain extensions seeking trapped sounds Ghetto thoughts/bandstand courage/solo flights Nerve-wracked suspicions of newer sounds and doubts New York alter city/black tears/secret disciples Hammered horn pounding soul marks on unswinging gates Culture gods/mob sounds/visions of spikes Panic excursions to tribal jazz wombs and transfusions Heroin nights of birth/and soaring/over boppy new ground. Smothering rage covering pyramids of notes exploding Cool revelations/shrill hopes/beauty speared into greedy ears Birdland nights on bop mountains, windy saxophone revolutions Dayrooms of junk/and melting walls and circling vultures/ Money cancer/remembered pain/terror flights/ Death and indestructible existenceIn that Jazz corner of life Wrapped in a mist of sound His legacy, our Jazz-tainted dawn Wailing his trumpets of oddly begotten dreams Inviting the nerveless to feel once more That fierce dying of humans consumed In raging fires of Love.

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Bob Kaufman


No post script, none needed, Have a great weekend Family Peace Tenthltr2u

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