b.z. niditch | improvisation no. 7


When the rosin bathes
on your recovered violin
from the East Side
old stone pawnshop
among the lost musicians
and abstract expressionists
who always show up late
with their sweaty tickets,
here at your basement studio
your cadenzas start to fly
at Brahms’s Hungarian dances
getting ready
to play jazz in a trio tonight
with your ever-hitting
intonations spilling out
from minor keys
which keep showing up
in improvisation #7
surpassing a high “E ”
my right hand
in acrobatic form
reaching the bridge
in a slippery bow
with hairy roundness
in textural fury
my living notes float
on latitude’s air-waves
by the river’s shorelines
straight to Harlem’s clubs
where the Village patrons
go to their water- holes
in faded denim
to hear the horns and strings
blow them away.

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