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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.


Bob Kaufman

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

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