b.z. niditch | improvisation no. 3


An unready puzzle
of improvisation
arrives like a new friend
on the scene
sits down to jam
with a four tongued
sax player
whose body and blood
beats on the porch’s
empty platform
teaching him how to play
the unreasonable blues,
as a few orioles
in orange costume
observe my new shades,
no one here can be deaf
hearing dawn’s
improvisation bird song
from virgin nests
perched along cypresses,
you stay to watch
new feathers fall
on the green ground
tumbled and tossed
in a whimsical welter
while playing
a metamorphosis of notes
from crisp juiced lips
by first light
cracking out sharp b flats,
that unique sound
within the moistness
of an inspired reed
gnawing inside
with a rush of notes
soon outreaches
a blanket full of riffs
moving out two miles
of spiraling echoes
from unnamed tunes
when rhythm discovers
what only jazz excites
sounding out on
this unrehearsed morning
consumed with sunshine.

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