Category Archives: Improvisations – Poetic Impressions From Contemporary Music

After John Zorn’s Masada (Live In Taipei) 1995 Disc #1
Shebuah

What does one call the ones who breach the gates, the ones who whip the dispossessed, drag our young women behind the wall to shame them with their fondling? What is there in our slim vocabulary to drive pain up the spine, to churn the bowels, cause the retching blood? Shebuah! & spit in the dust between their feet. Shebuah! & raise a furious fist that will never be mistaken for peace. Shebuah! & burn their first born behind their eye . . . where they are sure to find them crisp & cold.

Shebuah – Curse – An Oath

After: ‘Six Marimbas’ Music by Steve Reich

Water: Flowing. Falling. Running. Water & Air & Fire & Earth &

They circle twice & come in low. Their ears twitch. Tongues dart.
From the brush they walk to the edge:

Take my eyes & run with them. Take my arms & craft a new room.
Take my legs & beat a path to the waves.

In your hands I’m liable for death.
In your bed I birth the lame & the mute.

Speak to me of fire, of the scars on the belly. Speak of flames in your bowels, your hot rejections.

Care for her. She’s the feather in our last nest. Wear her with pride.
Take me under the bridge & tear out my tongue.

Breathe through your mask. Breathe & at arms length dance & as you glide & spin you’ll turn & slip over the wall.

As the sun slows to sleep I feel your breath on my back & open my hands to offer the last bowl.

Here. I have made it for you. Drink.

After John Zorn’s Masada (Live In Taipei) 1995

Disc #1

What does one call the ones who breach the gates, the ones who whip the dispossessed, drag our young women behind the wall to shame them with their fondling? What is there in our slim vocabulary to drive pain up the spine, to churn the bowels, cause the retching blood? Shebuah! & spit in the dust between their feet. Shebuah! & raise a furious fist that will never be mistaken for peace. Shebuah! & burn their first born behind their eye . . . where they are sure to find them crisp & cold.

Shebuah – Curse – An Oath

After Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew

Spanish Key (excerpt)

There’s a party. In the square. They’ve come. To calm the heat. Some swig dark. Rum from a bottle. Others. Smoke. There’re the girls. In their undulating dresses. Reminiscent. Porcelain. Dolls. Like marionettes. Weaving spells. It’s hot. Nobody. Hurries. One old guy. Passes. A bottle. Joints make the rounds. Saturday. The kid with the trumpet makes his way. To the stand. Hits that high note & then another. The others join him as the gnarly crowd twitches & shifts from one foot to the other. There’s a guy in a wheelchair. He carries a pistol under his blanket. Don’t trust no one. I guess. Can’t blame him. It’s been a nasty year. An old woman drags her curious son to see the hotshots in their zoot suits, holds up a sign in Spanish that translates: Too Late! Too Late!

After: Terry Riley’s Cadenza On The Night Plain

It’s the song she sings in his ear as he strokes her tender bristles, licks. It’s the song she sings in his ear as he strokes her tender bristles, licks the nipple that grows taut & dark under his kiss. & as he reaches into her to find that elusive spot she gasps as if to say Yes, you’ve found your way & his touch heats & her breath stiffens & his fingers & her lips & soon the stroke is urgent & her body reaches up to meet him & opens for him & she chants in tongues that reach back to the beginning, to the first man & the first woman, when it was new & sometime, even now, new again . . . . .

After: ‘From The Waist Up’ No Stars Please Music by The Trummerflora Collective

After scrambling for the last breath after chasing the last fix after wailing at the wailing wall after the big man threw the first punch after the small dark girl began to cry after all the money was gone after stumbling through the park after vomit & blood in the eye after the car left the station after crawling through snow after sleeping under the porch after the cat shit on your head after birdcalls & catcalls & sirens & cops after pistols & whips after no witnesses after a star fell after you missed my call after I sent flowers after you missed my call after I took another drink & another & after the bottle came the hovering in the calming sea after swimming into the sun after all.

After Fred Lerdahl’s String Quartets – No.1

To be certain. Relax. Think about that time in Oslo. She was to meet you. Yes. That was a time. No. She never came. What’s the use? Not now. Follow the yellow butterfly. Take a sip from the bottle. Write your name in the snow. Forget to forget. Mother’s milk. Some other time. Remember Copenhagen? Saturday night. No stars. Gobbledygook. Cornpone. Or was it porn? The message is clear. Random notations. After all. That’s right. Summertime. Too. Don’t squander the moment. Sizzle & squeak. Speak to the man in the moon. Rattle be damned. Centipede. Some other time. Say it ain’t so. Remember Chicago. 1957. Charley McCarthy. The Rubicon. Notes in the book directed you to swim to the watermelon. Must have been a dream. Summer is sinister suspense. Never did like her. Always made me nervous. With those scissors. Suck-it-up. On North Avenue. Remember? She’s on your handlebars. That sweet ass. What was her name? Maria? No. Clair Ann? No. MaryAnn. That’s it. MaryAnn. Right you are. Take a break. Start again tomorrow . . .