Unspoken Word
August 20, 2016
JAZZ MEN

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There's a billion jazz men in my blood blowing their horns for love.

They've been out on the street too long to wonder what the hell is going on -- for in their freedom -- in their utmost respect for recklessness, they know that life is but a high note held above the head of anyone who listens.

Happy to be playing on a night when others less fortunate than them are recovering from day jobs, these jazz boppers restore all integrity to the underground club that is my body here in this nether world of friends and future lovers.

I sing with them! I dance! I tap my soul to the beat of their incessant drumming! And though they do not need to look at me, they smile.

What I see I cannot say, nor can this midnight review redeem the essence of what it is these billion molecules of madness in human form demand. This is the form of God before your eyes! This is the moment of majesty!

Die now and find what wakes the sleeping beauty of your bones. Die now and live.

Jazz men, jazz men, play your horns and drums, pound those keys so the vague interrupters of eternity can finally get up and dance. Jazz men, jazz men, play yourselves -- wind through the leaves, water over stone, echoes off white bones.

Hey you finger drumming soldiers of man's need to stop finding himself, and so stopping, actually find himself to be found. Hey, you street licking bluesmen of the space between day and night, I love your song, your SCREAM for no one in particular.

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at August 20, 2016 05:18 AM

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“I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry.”
— John Cage

Welcome to my new blog — brief ruminations on what it is that moves me (and maybe YOU, too). If any of my poems inspire you, please forward them to friends. Good muse travels fast. Or could, with your help.

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