Category Archives: Improvisations – Poetic Impressions From Contemporary Music

Improvisation: After Elliott Carter’s Double Concerto

Improvisation: After Elliott Carter’s Double Concerto

for Harpsichord & Piano

The sky is falling. God save the sky. & all its inhabitants. In the distance. The people herd their kids – Pump gas for a quick escape.

Waterfalls & Monday mornings.

A calliope sails over the town – All the horses . . . Jane & Alice jump rope double-dutch. Arnold with his hair-lip & body odor wrestles his dog Icarus.

& here’s where the waiter brings coffee & a sweet to brighten the day.

Lollipops all round.

Who but a clumsy butcher would have stood for this mess? Shush. It’s a false start for sure. Here, give me your hand – one brother to another.

Hurricanes & poison ivy,

Wait. There’s trickle of water through the crack in the dike. Make way for modern warfare. Chomp / Chomp

& so it goes. A running start. For a startled eye. Another reason. To wear rubber shoes. Another reason. To wear rubbers. Another. Mistake. Shush.

Hear it? The volume’s turned up. The band’s chasing false gods again. Here. Pass the muffins & cold turkey.

Yes. Go. Cold turkey. It’s been done by less than you. Someone whispers. Off stage. It’s a secret. There’s only one way.

To find out. Bury the body here. In the same spot. Where. The horses fell. Where. The guns went off. Where. There’s no reason.

But go on you do. Hear the argument on the second floor? They’re at it again. Those two. Never could be trusted – lust for sure.

It’s best here in the ambulance. The apparatus. The bandages. The drugs &

handcuffs. What a spoiled sport you’ve become.

Come. Help me harness the wagon. There’s much to do before the sun sets & the rumblings begin again.

Do you think they’ll make it? I mean, make it out alive? Too much talk. Here, take a cigar it’ll calm your nerves.

Passively tasteless. All of you. Random acts of kindness. Random acts of torture. Random acts of memory.

On the next street over there’s a house with a man & women painted on the front door. They’re kissing. Blam. Blam. Blam.

It’s starting to rain kittens & clowns. I’m serious. For the first time I think I understand oblivion.

Mixmaster of fate, mistress of distress. It’s here the bells ring for the last time. Bing. Bing. Bing.

Be careful what you wish for. It comes in waves. Turtles & Labradors. In a minute the answer will flash across the screen. Are you ready?

Ready or not, here I come. & She. Balancing a ball on the lip of her nose or nose of her tongue or however it goes.

In the distance a horn & hound & running water & a lake appears with a woman rowing her dead husband across.

A mystery is unfolding. Open your hand. Take it in. Do not separate yourself. I thought you’d never ask. Of course it was.

Smothering donkeys.

Shush. They’re at it again. The rustling in the weeds has stopped. All you can see are the heads. What about . . .?

Don’t you ever tire? It was like this last time. It’s no joke. Listen! The violin’s behind the weeping willow. A Rolls covered in quarters

or are they diamonds? There’s never enough time. Trim the sails. We’re headed into weather. Keep out a sharp eye.

Wear it on your lapel. Like a flag. Yes. That’s it. Like a furled, fluffy, funny, forsaken & forbidding . . . flag.

& here the romance ends – just in time. The next round is scheduled for the time before. Trust me. I’m always prepared.

The chimes now. No more time for foreplay. Get to it. Yes. The dance-master holds all the cards &

it’s getting late. Time for your nap. I’m certain they’ll understand. You’ve been so good. That’s right. Like that. . . Just. Like. That.

Don’t be ashamed. Never concede. I’ll carry the bags. You run ahead. November is always a mystery.

When the champion enters the room everyone applauds. Everyone except Roman with his bag of chips & dirty underwear.

Who invited him? But there’s the Champagne & what a racket it makes & bundles of pillows & scads of skittles &

beer all around. & around & around they go – Bing. Bing. Bing. – the bells again & the whip & gun.

If I had my way. Sunrise at six fifteen. Fourteen hours of sunlight. Getting close. Getting together. Getting it on.

& here they come again. Up the stairs & down the hall to grandmother’s chocolate cake & gin rummy & pop goes the weasel & . . .

Climbing back & the rat-a-tat-tat of rockets in the hands of the plumber with yellow eyes & a bald baton. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

Make it stop, make it stop now. There is no winner only the excitement of battle & the bird on the wing & the winged scorpion & . . .

Chug-a-chug-a chug. Around each bend is another bend. Tick-Tock Tick-Tock & a gaggle of geese.

& so it goes, one behind the other, into the murmuring mist & crocodile tears. & so

to one & all & all for one – Goodnight.

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 . . .