syllabistic fingers

what a great way to spend the 4th of July. i just came home from Midtown Art and Coffee Lounge on E. 38th Street, Spoken Word Soul Food having experienced a performance by a fellow named Mud Jones. Now i can hear all ya’ll who knew who Mud Jones going…”she didn’t know about Mud Jones?” well stuff it sisters and brothers, because i discovered, unearthed this one tonight.

he sang songs that soothed the savage in me. quieted me down. caused me to take a big exhale. and all with just an acoustic guitar, a flute and a sound track. liking me some Mud Jones.

what is with stage names? i think cleve bottoms and I are the only people on the scene who don’t have stage names. what’s up with that? are we all ashamed of our “government” names? and what’s wrong with the ones who embrace  their given names? are they somehow part of the aliens and conspiracy Sleepy P spoke of? There is some kind of conspiracy going and I believe upon further investigation we will find that these stage names are some kind of kinky conspiracy to throw others like me off the trail.

nevertheless, here’s my poetic entry for July 4:

i wanted words to make love to me
i wanted syllabalistic fingers to
climb up the small of my back
while one hand held my head
so I could not move
yet all is motion and all is sound
and i am in a proverbial grip
with seemingly no way out and
not looking for one anyway

i wanted two prepositional phrases
to come together so intimately
that the sentence they made was
so profound, so complete, that
it became one thought and
even though the author put it there
there was really no need for a
semicolon…no need for punctuation
at all

For Tyrone

Tyrone was sho nuff serving it up
in little ice-cube size portions
so a girl like me wouldn’t choke
as the soul was going down

the recipe called for a pinch
of soul, a half-cup of jazz, a dash of blues
this musical gumbo Tyrone was serving up
hot and steamy from the stove

over a bed of rice
i laid down after the meal
and felt calloused fingers caress my body
carried music directly to my skin

and i thank the Lord above for
making acoustic guitars
that stir, like spoons,
Tyrone’s musical gumbo

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