Saturday, July 7, 2018

Ken Trimble # 19 El negro

In the skin of Thelonious
I felt compelled to move
along with sounds
my body shifting like the wind
pshh wah shh wah shh
swaying like a palm tree
in Cuba el negro grooves
in the Havana heat
my hat on my head
a temporary arrangement
to the tilted axis
of the world
as it was about to go
I heard only the band
in its piano parts
no sax filtered into my
for I was gone
real gone.


  1. ...and this old thing from 2012:


    Enormous house, servants for everything
    curtains drawn to protect the paintings
    a Rothschild, she dreams at needlework
    denied what you’d really call a schooling
    gets married, has children, waits a moment
    flees to New York City, she’s falling for jazz
    and Thelonius Monk (who’s got problems)
    Nica is very rich (that you can’t deny)
    she’s heard of a thing money can’t buy
    smokey music in the basement clubs
    bass notes, the thunder of Charlie Parker
    then that hesitant, hopeless, hopeful piano
    ‘round midnight when the crowd thins
    when connoisseurs of the soul sit still
    and a dirty draw of perfect sound
    permits the long drawn out breath of bliss
    Nica, Nica, Nica, Pannonica, a butterfly
    like Cho-Cho-San, casting off her own angels
    another subject of the foreign winds of love
    a rich white lady faces prison for a black man
    please say this again and again and again
    try and imagine this power any way you can
    at Monk’s funeral she sits next to his wife
    and all who come pay homage to them both.


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