b.z. niditch | in my ears


No haircloth
for this Blue Monk
recording in my ears
along the Pacific
I’m doubled down
on a kid’s surfboard
and no one is near
by a sea of dunes,
almost speechless
at the long waves,
easily climbing out
of a borrowed swimsuit
with a thousand notes
unfolding on a blanket
with a new reed
on my ripe lips
to play solo sax
vowing to emulate
Monk’s Criss-cross
talking to me
recorded in my soul
with improvisations’
high D notes
by these ditch water’s
wary arms,
as French tourists
invite me
to their picnic table
with Cezanne’s fruits
where language sounds
from my shoulder
onto the beach
with open boats
reflecting first light
in a yellow dust up
hearing Monk’s music
sailing out by palms
on sandy shoals
by fisherman’s wharf.

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