Friday, March 24, 2006

Music Theory (2006)

I woke up this morning with an unnamed hunger
on my mind….

It filled my cup with four part harmonies splashing
Down the long sides of a cold glass
Fruit punch drunk
On strawberry tangerine reggae rhythms
And barbershop honey concoctions
That steer their way down thirsty ears

But, still, I was not filled--

Unquenched I went searching
and found
sizzlin’ like salsa, flipped into a pan
Aroma of crispy seasoned bass notes
was popping with a golden fresh ::::aaahhhh:::
In melody a la fish grease
That makes you wanna get the last piece
Spicy sounds stick to the ears like plantains and rice
It christened every inch of the house
so loud the cats came callin’
And I taste the blend
of every ancestor I have ever been
All up in my plate

But still, I was not filled

I thought I’d try me a different epicure
sat on my red velvet couch let my mind
wade in the waters of ‘Nawlins
Black and comely
Suave saxophones
Big brutal trumbones
Are served in a Diasporic jazzy parfait
And from a distance I can almost taste the French resistance
Of time as one after one
I taste cool improvisational revolution on the tongue
Caribbean Rum, Cocoa brazed by Brazilian sun
And the none-so-mum
notes of Mississippi chocolat mousse
and proof

But still, I was not filled….

Had me some cold and funky greens
Fresh bluegrass, picked and cleaned
Gleaned with the smiles of all the women who walked away
And all the men folk that couldn’t stay
And all the children that ran away
Yeah, something likes that
I cut into the souls of black folk like a turnip
And pushed myself down into the juice
The pot was bubbling and profuse
With sangin’---not the kind that comes form the can
but the kind that boils up from deep down in the whole soul
And comes out hot and greasy in the bowl

But still, I was not filled….

So I tried some delicious vowels and lovely whipped consonants
Infused with beats
As stiff as egg whites
And then laid down over
hard-pressed bittersweet brown
crunchy and whole percussional soul
of the street
and microwaved to the beat
but slow cooked to the mouth
and consumed quickly
before the royalties are infringed
then sprinkled with
melted hiphop elliptical pens

But still, I was not filled

So I looked and looked
And tried a little of that southern comfort
Buttery and baked from scratch, it shouts, claps, stomps and cries
I tasted reams of buttermilk choral dreams blend
In with salty pain
Wailing Organs and tempting guitars drive the partaker to knees
And like all good works, it rises to crescendo
The lightness of melodies and the heaviness of rhythm
Anointed with holy oil and water

I filled my plate with all that I saw
closed my mind,
open my ears,
and hearing all, got fed.

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