b.z. niditch | mortal lips


At the raw bar
in the big apple
jolts of first light
hits my joints
once knotted stiff
trying to salvage
last night’s melody
with a standing wish
to be lighthearted
after a somnambulist’s
velvet opium dream,
trying to salvage
last night’s melody
which won’t go away,
opening my fingers
to blanket soft tones
on my keyboard in spite
of diminished sleeplessness
to run up the farthest limit
on sounding boards
interrupting my writing
from mortal lips
to drink in notes
at the keyboard
slowing down
very gently,
like in Charlie Parker’s

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