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Improvijazzation Nation - Issue # 60

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Carryovers from those frustrated earlier years lead me to believe
that since garter belts and spike heels have gone the way of most
other phreaknesses, there will come a time - supposedly - (much
later, when senility sweeps ever so softly in upon my senses) when
"Supp-Hose" will be my main attraction... this is the main abberation
standing in the way of more diligently attacking... the monumental
task at hand; blowing the minds of sedimental journeymen with ever
new renditions of red sunset sales and waging war on those wayward
warriors who can only find time for the pursuit of booze, bennies and
broads... those who have so little time for the sweet of (true)
pleasure's simple, and CERTAINLY no time for auras awash in

...'tis further complicated by the reluctance found on most frontiers
to open up to TRUST; down to the ultimate level, where even spiritual
nudity and its' inherent vulnerabilities are no longer so horribly
frightening - it is really, then, that our twisted interpretation of
separate existence for those two most valid states (sexual/spiritual)
is what forces us ultimately to the realization that it is ALL
somehow only one big improvisation, anyway, so we ought to just LAY
BACK and let it happen...

With that as our introductory framework for insanity, let us further

Spiderwomb thought
In silkenthread looms, as
Transience comes clear (I realize)
This age adds no wisdom
To a true understanding
Of the futility
In concrete illusions...

And the dagger
Sharp twinge, cutting image
Quickfades, in mem'ry
Of hesitant (near innocent) approaches
To the nova
Heat of her

Transience being the mystery in this complicated weave of
improvisational EXISTENCE, we must further consider the happenings...

In the space of a single moment
Three moons past (in the arms)
Of this lover of abandon, that
All men's dreams are made of;

True recognition
Of the improvisational scheme
No curtain calls
Only beginnings
In this hustle, of


And the sister's come
As brothers go, to the beauty
Of butterflies
In wanton streams
Becoming the beacons
For our passage
Into the next phase!

And now the soldier, weary of to and fro, begins to recite his
somewhat tattered war-torn tale of woe...

Momentary version (inversion, reversion) of self returning from
or coming to reality; the 'garden' remaining only an allusion in
this chaotic semblance of ORDER that uniformity demands...
'natural' only the many-colored robe donned as the decades turn;
and imagery only a fallen fantasy in the face of the
technological tirade these demons so proudly professed to be
the answer...

"What war did daddy do in you?"
"What did the war do in you, daddy?"
"What daddy did war do in, you?"

Waiting for the wonder of the weave, weary become the way of
life... creativity cumbles as the pillars turn to the ancient
powders... apolitically rise, mourningly, to meet what the
mortals (having been led to) believe to be challenge... there
are more to dreams than Freud would have us understand, but
that's not my business! Where are the KEYS?

Patience is no virtue
It is, rather
An ancient art;

Ask the hunter
(OR the hunted)!

Spiritual communition creeps abaout in such unlikely places;
sinners and saints alike seek comfort in the coming of the
cloud; subliminal death-wish imposed on millions of
unsuspecting discophiles... how serious this condition? Only
philosophers know for sure... or palmists... maybe psalmists..
purchase peace elsewhere - existence is MINE!

"How can it end like that?", you ask; YOU are the answer!!!


at the end of time we still need music      (by Luke Buckham)


she walked out of a house charcoaled by ancient arguments

with a blue guitar and a sheaf of songs ruffled by the wind

and the trees bustled around her dropping leaves in her path 

hungry for the wood they relinguished to her guitar

and the signposts bent toward her rattling their lights

hungry for the metal that made her strings

that bruised her fingers for a thousand nights

and she was ready to play all the remaining chords in the universe

but she met a man from the end of the world

who showed her the newspapers and the proclamations of the apocalypse

and soon she was sitting on the sidewalk crying

her guitar laying at her side like an animal stuffed by a cruel taxidermist

(who has time for rock n' roll if the world's about to end?)

but she stood up and strummed, tears falling off her like hail,

and a few birds

dropped out of the acoustic air around her,

making fluttery noises

like newspapers

being thrown away forever.



dying sidewalks       (by Luke Buckham)


you sometimes well up with oversize tears

on the way to the convenience store.

all those people behind the counter looking asleep.

you would like to wake them up,

but you, too, are afraid to live,

and yet want to light up every situation,

even the mundane ones.  but on some days

your smile won't be reflected from anything.

you feel your mouth grow numb

as an oyster on supermarket ice cubes.

the clang of the cash drawer is the only voice left on those days.

make a joke about death

while the tv broadcasts a baseball game

and the green field run by men in leotards 

is far from your slush-ridden feet wrapped in yesterday's newspaper,

look the clerk in the eyes as if you could make his face 

into a train tunnel to eternity in heaven,

and make a joke about death.

hear the crack of the bat ushering out the last home run,

and know 

as your whole heart bleeds into your lungs 

how badly we need laughter in the dryest places.



metamorphosis       (by Luke Buckham)


when you are dead in the guts,

the faces around you look dead.

and you hate them for being dead. 

so many numb smiles

in the reflection of yours. 

if you realize your own death,

many of those previously thought dead 

mysteriously wake up,

and show new wrinkles of mystery 

around the eyes and mouth.


huge and monstrous books have been written

by people who never learned how to do this.


Verse spews forth from a penis
In a porno movie, sperm shot
In a thunderclap of creation
Arcing onto a limpid page, curving
To receive the sacrament, spotting,
Burning through the frosty parchment,
Icy in death, hard and stiff.



         wedding invitation

A Japanese pillow book,
Humongous penes,
Testes - what a lucky girl . . . .



I've been told there are only limited editions on approach to matters
improvisational; which matters not a hoot, since any enlightenment
received from a "textbook" would/could not possibly equate to the
true spirit (as I perceive it, anyway) of improvisation... any rate, what I really want to throw at you is a question...
how does society/culture affect attitudes towards improvisation? My
last 9 years have been spent (for the most part, anyway) in Korea...
there is an 'attitude' here about approach to "life" in general,
mostly influenced by Confucious' followers that says - "Don't
talk/just DO"... recent horrific experiences in both Korea and China
show some flaws in that approach when it's applied in the political
arena... while the struggle is a necessary one (and the battles MUST
be fought, since there will ALWAYS be those eager to 'control'
others' thoughts), some things (on the political battleground,
anyway), must be thought out first, and targets selected/affected
that will sway the powermongers' mind towards conciliation; but in
matters more important, i.e., LIFE and the living of it (which
CERTAINLY must encompass the arts), there is (by my interpretation)





things is the only way to experience a valid improvisational
experience... and when that's done as a matter of course (the
CULTURAL aspect I alluded to), it BECOMES a way of life... life
becomes an improvisational experience.

Observing the States from afar (as I have done for the bulk of the
last 25 years), it is easy to see that our societal/cultural
propensity for ORGANIZATION/ORDER has led us to a state where
improvisation and its' practicioners are definitely the
"odd-men-out"... even the DOING of things is hampered by some jaded
concept (related to ORDER) of the way things are SUPPOSED to be
done... then improvisation becomes a matter of CARNIVAL/CIRCUS;
something for the 'regular' folks to make fun of; & who needs that?
Of course, that's no put down for those who daily practice the idea
of LIVING improvisation in the land of Yuppies... it's only to say
that there are cultural BLOCKS to being very successful at it

SO - What to do? Continue... DO... improvise! ...and integrate

east/west/hither/yon/yin/yang/up/down/wherever/whenever/however you
can; particularly when it helps to defeat the STRUCTURE imposed by
the 'normals' already born/bred into the webs of concrete that have
grown up around them!


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