b.z. niditch | recollection


Needing an oracle
from my posthumous
shadow between
my identity
it’s feeling like Paris
here in Montreal
uneasy to locate
the club
for jazz’s exposure
escaping landscapes
of the blues
by a thousand days
on an injured motorcycle
with an injured
Achille’s heel
crushed from travel
going for auditions
with my gnawed nerves
over wayfaring states
of consciousness
poor mouthed
with only a candle
and boy scout knife
for the Big Apple
at the northern border
with life’s green card
and almost
expired passport,
when Muse and music
match these notes
in my back pocket
with an aching harmony
in a poem,
my foreign body
dispersing hostility
streaking from
naked Beat intonations
losing sax-ear fragments
with rocky arpeggios
of my late compositions
these opus works
my wounded absence
like so many moves
on the chessboard
having had to pawn
to gird my survival
from luckless betrayal.

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