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poetry, no. 1 {s.

(These Incantations)
Upon witness of
Kamasi Washington,
@the Regent Theater
Los Angeles, California;
May fourth: twenty-fifteen.
As it wasour bellies full of
raw fish and rice-wine taken lavishly
in Little Tokyo. // then left only,
for the digestion,
to take shots of tequila reposado;

Many players, most of them young

and all of them cool as shit.

while the lights are dim and the DJ

is free to fuck around.
At these interjections whispers take root
like it might be:
who is here
and what is going to happen;
all of them just empty guesses.
( it all
takes root, as the
booze takes root, the
strings croon with love
behind this, where the
chaos takes root...)

But of course, center stage:

a trio of horns: shy-guy trombone,
bold-hip dredlocked trumpet,
but between them soul tenor.
He is wide-bodied,
but not imposing;
as if calm could come from his touch.
He glows brighter
beneath rainbow lights, sparks
before us all and all of them
all of them

moan for fury, perhaps, but cry also

from the weight of our collective anticipation.

Is // suddenly
come screaming, or
wailing to thee these
incandescent rhymes
on hate&war. Thoughtless
rampage, like we
paint iridescent
a water-droplet

Even if,
even if, even if it could be
just plastered history,
it would still remain
only the mythos we could create
out of thin air; out of
trauma stains, a corrupted
pretense to some shared
and thereby, accepted
legacy, the very fiction by which
this momentary reality
is shaped.

It is YOU. And it
is ME.

Until suddenly
it isnt.
Spanning all-time and all time, his sax positioned as the taproot
into American blood-soil; creeping through a thick, complicated mess
of decomposing theory, like marinade injected into a commercial roast.
For him to rhapsodize inclusion, with me here,
and all else and all others
present, gifted with this bared contribution to the narrative
blaring loud enough to rupture Old Los Angeles marble;
so as it appears, as it appears
before us, In The Traditionlonging nostalgia
painted in streaks smearing between hot&cold
stretching the range of each shade in this spectrum;
(be it frozen fire or boiling stone) // the position
of minority-speak, the raging echoes of forgotten riots
along a drift of abandoned history; like you say
what is real, or what is the current dictation of equality;
and misconstrued persecution; and such lack
of understanding; but if you do... if I do...

Nothing other than what is wished into vision; is daydreamed

or otherwise imagined into the spaces between memory
those consecrated by affection, or drawn
in tempered lines, inhabited by this unfamiliar fear
of Otherness Love; of overbearing suppression of
what is known / is what we know
about torn identity.
About mended identity.
(because) yes it can! get you killed
like what (we) (so-called) believe
is this vague notion, implied by sonic cartography,
the rivers and ranges of our perspective. // for the White Shadow
gives advice on how to hold our homes
together, t tambin, [Angeleno] Hermano.
So the walls will shake, and the theater
will give way to the spectacle
of our collective bargaining: for equitable justice
in ruined halls, for the freshness of new music with
multi-dimensional heritage
absent of fear;
imbued by wild roots,
So and so it is,
leafy greens, and
rupturing tunnel walls
ripe fruit.
in this woven structure
suspiciously similar
to the internet,
on into intermission; to devour more of the night and the nights
reprieve // before our sin is made real; before the break
of day has left our legacy in want, or the stories of our youth reduced
to nonfiction purgatory. Because it is played here, this memory
is played here
on warped, aged vinyl crinkled / along the rim; in dream
of times we mutually imagine / by distorted reflection, through
whisky flasks, cognac bottles, / and tequila shots one after another.
Like it does, like it does time after
time again, in ribbons runs by trumpet
and this, with which
tunes like this and yet, and yes, in tune
we dothe epoch, the pure void
of you; they beg for the chorus, for
to signify our coming; like the keyyys
the climax mid-song, for this heavy
could breed our meaning. //
trane come runnin through, like this
It does, it does, you see...
in just this memory induced, this

collective soul with tired eyes:

staring into the hate, &gleaming
because of it. Shining like
the stars atop the wood, each breath
underpinned by Venus-blue, by
the fear of malicious intent without knowing
the predatory danger
of unconscious violence.
So why it swings, why it collapses against time
into the rubble we must reclaim
and invent in our myth, the passage of time and creation
of our kind, of this kind, of multiplicitous sorts;

this while still

Others are killed
against a moon full o diamonds.

But this
we have created, this
world of violence. Do not
pretend it comes
as some surprise. We all
have known for some time
that this //
is the only possible result.

So let it bleed here now, let it // speak here now, of these

failures which have been propagated endlessly against our will.
For so be it // be it still // beating still, this heart of endless history
in the body of our own, so primitive, a fragility of which we are all
all too familiar. // Upon this // upon great will for the muscles to
stretch, the soul to settle like the stomach; in that first action, which
is the first action, all debts determined, all power assembled. For
it is just this... // in it all // as It permeates our existence, broken
to primal fragments, with each piece reflecting an entire reality, an
entire sense of time... &... place. // Like we all // have this blood on
our hands. // Absolving us, like a sacrifice of the innocents..
Such absolution, only clicks away,
at the end of every new link;
be maybe where it lies,
against some distant,
nostalgic backdrop, in colors
like long ago, like us in

the mess we have createdeach and every one. This has become
our debt to the world. Each and. Every. One.
It bleats in this chopped wind, in this hellish rise of
cold flame or burning rain;
it could come to you, it could
come in whithered past
to you, and to Be this melodic form
of made-up memory. We
sing it all the time, in every pop
chorus or grand ancient piece
this is just how
jazz might remind us. Right here:
Kamasi Washingtons
5-hour set.
Two intermissions. Too
much booze, yet still
that joint passed along the crowd
neccessitates a puff for me, a puff for you,
so that Our experience might be
as mutual as the players here tonight.
Stepping back; stepping // back: to the bar when theres
only me&you left: the Writer
// &the Wreader.
We hold hands, in fear. Hold self, in fright. Of the pictures
set forth, of the
deepest regions of my self, and of
your self; // how it seems in this music
which I am not part of, but
have borne witness to. And
can think only, how beautiful,
this fantasy.