Down along the avenue of jazz, of jam and jive
cooking
in Paris, the Bohemian Montmartre,
the
manage-a-trois finds its rhythm by fits and starts,
a
piano, stand-up bass, and drums taking turns in the sack,
the
strings, wires, and skins lurching forward, hanging back.
The
melody, wearing a disguise for tempo’s espionage,
swings
Kepler’s planetary orbs into elliptical downbeats,
syncopated
sighs, the wail of a comet’s tail
cutting
a nebula of cigarette smoke
above
a sea of berets, turtlenecks, and beards.
It
is all harmony and vibration, string theory,
dimension
folded into dreaming dimension,
half
notes riding a collapsing stave of jazz stutter,
angels
ascending and descending Jacob’s ladder.
Such
glorious confusion. Jove dances the jitterbug.
It
is all an electron in a grander scheme,
and
below it falls the forever of collaborating seams.
So
many universes, and I have yet to take the Grand Tour.
The
high-hat and snare kiss the bass line and keys
while
Sartre and Camus are taken to the woodshed.
One
day I shall dance the harmonics,
strip
away what seems, shall bend time and space
in
a loft where the trio flickers like a neon sign
and
get to the bottom, or perhaps the top, of the neverending shine.
~William Hammett
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