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Improvijazzation Nation - Issue # 40

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Clacking stairs climb
themselves to heaven
as i wrestle with myself
underneath the shadow of
Jacob and his angel
utterly raucous.


Sometimes the sea
calls my name
and sometimes
I answer back with
and addresses
it bothers me a lot
and won't let me go
won't let me go


Once upon a
there was
or were
a sound
or thing
that started it off
Some say
But then others surmise
So, here's my idea
let's put all the raw materials
for my 1986 Cutlass Sierra
(Tannish gold paint and all)
and see how many explosions it takes
before something
is accidentally

Philip Fairbanks,
75 Davis Street,
Smithville, TN


"Like Rainbows On Tin Cans"

Lips invisible:  parting, closing
taking visible breaths.

Alert to possibilities:  singing, chanting,
living day by day.

Seeking donations:  dollars, quarters,
expressing with the right notes.

Colors turning blind:  blending, muting,
forming smiles like Rainbows on tin cans.


The Band is ready to practice the song
And the singer has passed out brand new copies --
Only to see red and black pens marking the pages,
and wishing sheet music could be handed out on floppies!

"Tide Rhythms"

Invisible lines -- we do not cross --
barriers of rocks
worn by water,
sun, sand, and seagull's cries ...
waves sliding, crashing
in their own peculiar rhythm: relentless
in their pursuit of consistency,
predictability, and conformity that
drives the waves back and forth
-- unending -- and unforgiving
... unchanging.

L.B. Sedlacek
POB 703 Lenoir NC  28645
Copyright L.B. Sedlack




I was eyeing myself, peering through you
To myself to the truth as that first burst
Of air did the moment they sliced me into the sky
And I came to accept the fabric of human skin.  I
Waited again to distinguish the majesty of basic
Shape and color for myself.
Then this poem spoke, saying its name
And it warrented itself, demanding ink.  It folded
The page corner with a sure finger
And I searched for my constution.
It invaded - I shook in fear.
It sat inside me, raw, thumping
In a resting place.
I called for its salvation.
We both lay here now breathing hard,
Singing of the evidence of the constant
Reminder of the process by which mud
Immersed in fire becomes a diamond.




Did poetry have any value?  Was it
The writer turned freedom fighter or
Senile historian inspired?  The diary
Of an artful heart universally presented,
Which must be the reason it is
Greeted by few thrilled eyes.  Swim
Through mine to clarify the source
Of yours.  Forget yours; let us delve
Further into my bellowing giants
Who demand purging.


Gabriel Lundeen
510 Errett Circle #8
Santa Cruz, CA 95060


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