Kerouac and Benny Jazz and Swing poems pomes and You

jazz poems
……o
……m
……e
……s

with a kerouac swing
i
t
h

a goodman orchestra

your legs in the air
sailing the dance floor
o’er the strength
of my arms

sing sing sing
..i……i…..i
…n….n….n
…..g…..g…..g

my love
y
love

s
i
n
g

s
i
n
g

s
i
n
g


…and good night

pantages hotel
jazz bistro
bay street – victoria
q.e raceway
hard wired surface track
that fog
that water
those cars and their
headlights
the stop lights
the sounds
the left
hand
right hand turns
the crosswalks
the sidewalk surf
midnight tide
over
concrete
the
music
the
meal
the candles
the
inside warmth
and outside
cold
the
walk back and
the lobby
the
elevator
the
room…
the bistro night
still in our
blood
the sound of voice
and piano
still
following us to the
window
past
the bed.

the

view outside

the

view in this room…….


the weather won’t matter beyond the ambiance

timeless jazz
in the blue rain
in the black night
under the sky scrapers
under the flying cars in the sky

in the future we’ll be
going to,
Connie’s Inn

won’t be
ain’t misbehavin
will be
listenin’
to
Armstrong’s ghost
or
Halie Loren

how distant in the future
to Connie?
to flying cars?
to Halie loren?

not too far in the distant
only as far as Toronto
sitting down with bistro
and jazz
but
cars will be above us
on the Q.E
the sky scrapers will mark our way
back to the hotel

-we’ll be on the sidewalk
without the need for
taxi’s
without the need for umbrellas
just a fedora
and
a red dress
hand in hand
Chinese neon signs
everywhere
blue lit
stars and a moon

just me

with

you.


i’m a lay person

quit
gnawin’ on your words
just say
what you want to say.
hell with the
big words,
you
can’t paint a picture with big words
that chew up the page
chew
up the portrait painted by tongue
with no real meaning.
just
talk to me-

talk
to me with without saying
‘fuck’
every other word.
breathe
in and relax,
and lose the anger
cut
the bullshit
and prove to me
you watch
the
game
you
play the game.
i don’t
need a stats man
who doesn’t
sleep with what he
preaches.

-it’s lunch break
it’s friday
it’s a long weekend

don’t come at me
as
though
it
were
monday.


overused like palpable

the catharsis
(hate that overused word)
of writing to the dead
as though
writing left handed when we lose
the right limb to the battle
of lost words
or worse -
lose the days in between
lost friendship or
family members
who have neither the inclination
or want
to say hello

but in the letter to,
and never back
from,
we write as though they are
listening and eagerly ready at the pen to
write back -
tho
even if alive,
we know
they never will

still

we write
and drop love into the seal
flaking off the skin
of our depression,
finishing the process
as the tongue dips across the ill gotten
measurement of the envelope
and slip the
cargo into the mail
whistling ourselves home
out of the cold
and into the warmth of a now changed
home.
– we go about our house hold business
as if a ghost has left, and the oppression
has lifted,
with sunlight coming through veiled
drapes.

my love

have you received my letter?

if so or if not,

i hope it finds you
on the left side of the soil -
which ever way
right,
may be correct for
you.


how do i know?

how do i know we’re gonna make it?

cuz babe,
we’re bobby baun saying,
‘tape it up and let’s go one more round.’
we’re
sitting with God and saying,
‘alright
we’ll do it your way.’
the arena
the barn
the church
the crowd letting us know we finally
made it to the dance,
are above us.
we just gotta climb 23 steps up
the stairs from the basement
from the dressing room
and step on the ice
for one
more
game.

how do i know we’re gonna make it?

cuz babe,
i
just
know.

and when it’s all said and done -

we’re gonna be rocket richard
with fierce blood in
our
eyes…..

with ‘sugar’ jim henry
bowing to
us in the line
and after
our
victory saying,
‘okay rocket, i give in,
you honestly scare the shit out of me
i ain’t gonna stop you.’

how do i know babe?
cuz babe,

we’re Canadian.


She Pedals

she pedals

around Moira
over
to Wallbridge and onto
school
or college.

in the rain
with a wet streak up her backside
in the sun
with the traffic following her across the white line
SOON
in the snow and the ice
where sheer determination must keep her pedalling.

she pedals

while here in town
elections are brewing
where
no one but an ex cop has come asking for my support
where
no councillors have knocked on the door
no current mayor asking for re-election
has phoned or dropped a pamphlet.
sheer determination has come only to one man
who will get my vote- since
the rest don’t see the necessity
only find it necessary to remind on radio
to get out
and to
vote.

she pedals

as i sit in bedroom and TYPE
TYPE
TYPE.
send rough drafts to my wife
as she takes lunch breaks to clean up my C.V
as i wait at post office
to date stamp and send pkg to
Vancouver.
BEAUTIFUL WIFE
who has created hardware for another
potential mayor
in another potential town
doing her duty as a citizen
as
the radio reminds her to
get out and
vote.

BUT THIS STRANGER

she pedals
each morning to higher learning on Wallbridge.

lady

i hope you make it
most give up without trial or error
most tell you to do your
duty
most sit at home and wait for the phone
count the votes and blame
everyone else but themselves.

LADY

keeping pedalling
in those corduroy’s
in those jeans
in those shoes
in that jacket -
your hair tied back
with that back pack on your
shoulders….

SHE PEDALS.


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