First, Stan Getz:
My father always plays your CDs on Sunday mornings
Bringing relentless Brazilian sunshine into the house
The finely wrinkled eyes
Paths of light
Bloodred flecks brown, earthy yellow
A translator from light to sound to emotion
Even the girl from Ipanema might shed a tear or two.
-
Then Dr. Seuss,
Stumbling his way down into the dark subconscious
Mind
Painting it with brightstripes, licking the walls of thought
Happily to tast the simple joy
To give the finger merrily to Freud
And other such somber grown-ups.
-
The slap in the face--
Miles, Time is before time
Too cool, torn-voiced pimp
Silverplay, brasshustle
Grasped by a hand from the sky
His own hand unseeing, dancing
Lungs, throat, and cheeks doing what they do.
Did.
John Brinker
chips 92
p.92. volume 55. blue w/Her Back on cover.
