roger singer | more (jazz) poems

John Carter 1977 | Photo: Mark Weber


The voice of her rises
chocolate moon thick;
my ears drown in a heaven
Black fingers rise as the fall
of man and woman
yield to her jazz;
weak knees kiss the altar of song.
Her message swings like a
summer clothesline
flapping pants
and shirts alive.
Tumbling waves
from her roll me,
scattering my things,
releasing weight
and burdens
into the stream of
her flow.

Bobby Bradford & James Newton 1976 | Photo: Mark Weber


Painless got no hold
to my insides, where
my pain understands
me like the wet of water. Soaked.
Drinking in gulps. Hot and cold
mixed into the dirt of me.

The whites of my eyes. Pulsing
with rivers. Striking bold a gamblers
spirit of snakes pointing into the fire
of jazz.

Brass power. Rising dark into night
like steel gates. Grandly opening.
Flooding music under the skin.
Tight with blood. Breathing with alive.
Holding me.

Vinny Golia, Tim Berne & Roberto Miranda 1977 | Photo: Mark Weber


Her eyes, envelope sharp.
Sealed edges. Emotions
folded over. Tightly she smiles;
a history hides behind her lips.

Long weedy fingers; pointing
and pulling. Shoulders sing with
motion, dancing past warm air.
Clouds dust her in warm shadows.

Jazzy music. A salve; drawing her
sin into darkness, breathing, desiring
forgiveness. Her words wave like
clothes drying. Moss hangs
dead in heat. Showers steam dirty
streets. A saxophone calls her name.

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