Search this site or the web powered by FreeFind

Site search Web search

Improvijazzation Nation poetry - Issue # 74



ALL artists!  I am very, VERY happy to announce that IMPROVIJAZZATION NATION is ACCEPTING SUBMISSIONS again.  I have been granted a (possibly long-term) stay of execution for my trip to Iraq.  I will still  be traveling all over the U.S., so new issues may be a little less timely, but (as always), we will review your materials as soon as possible after we receive them.  Look at the guidelines for submission below, please:


MUSIC:  All formats accepted.  Snail mail to:  Zzaj Productions, c/o Dick Metcalf, 5308 65th Avenue, Lacey, WA 98513  The only criteria for music you submit is that it MUST HAVE high performance energy... if you submit lacklustre material, it will be reviewed accordingly

POETRY:  Poems are accepted for publication ONLY via e-mail.  Poems submitted in any other fashion will NOT be published.  Poetry that includes some reference to music is granted first priority for publication.

BOOKS:  We will review some books; books about music are PREFERRED.  We will NOT return any books submitted for review.  Snail them to the address listed above for MUSIC.

DIY Announcements:  We will post your (e-mailed) ad about DIY projects, regardless of genre or medium... HOWEVER, this is ONLY for INDEPENDENTS... if you are a corporation, don't even BOTHER sending stuff... it will be marked and reported as SPAM!



Poets - SUBMIT your poems via e-mail (!!ONLY!!) to:



I am pleased and honored to be in receipt of some poetry & prose from a "new" friend of ours, Maria Daines!  She's promised to send more along, so you can look forward to them in future issues!








Hey Tom, I stood there man, you have voices for lives, and I couldn't move for a work bound weekday recess, standin' listenin' while you came into mine. Now I have that piece that fits it up - the picture card sorrow I knew was there, all along, it's broke my luck, an' I gotta thank you for that, cos it means a lot, it crosses my heart like a sailors knot, somehow trails from where it all began, moves me from your writin' hand, n' grizzled tortured song, that asks no thanks from anyone, yet tears me into tangled sheets, where all life's pain n' pleasure meets, sees me like I'm here at last, like nothin' knows the driven past. You took it all n' let it go, yeah you're somethin' man, maybe you don't know, how you passed the baton down the line, left your soul an open shrine, to dreamers who can sleep n' break, to images before they wake, hold the bar with whisky grins, take the knocks on losin' chins, feel that someone in the smoke, will one day laugh n' get the joke, mould them tightly, prop them up, wedge the door before it shuts, that's where it is, about a cry, you've always needed but it hurt your eye, made you wait for somethin' true, that gets behind what's eatin' you. Then the stirrin' melts you down, like how your fingers smooth a frown, put it on again, n' I can hear what I have found, there, that's what it is, it's the healin' stone that weighs me down.
(This one will be a monologue in southern drawl when I can get to it)
Maureen NO! Ain't seven kids enough?  Denley shouted, as his wife eyed a new spangly pair a' wheels.  We don't have the room for us another single cot, no matter how yah feels.  N' she tried lookin' sorrowful, 'tad smugly at his face, knowin' as a woman does, when a fetus is in place.  It's hard enough ta' feed the little roughians we got, ain't four boys and three blind girls a pretty hopeful lot?  But she didn't pay no neverminds to Denley and his No's, she had the jackpot tucked away, right underneath her clothes.  Cookin' like a fairy cake an' a' fillin' her with joy, Maureen didn't mind a hoot, if t'was a blind girl or a boy.  Long as she could carry she'd go on shellin' 'em like peas, funny little wrinkled things, all crawlin' 'bout her knees.  She never did like school or doin' 'rythmetic or sums, couldn't wait ta' git herself a football team a bums, - Maureen NO! - Poor Denley told her, every single year, n' out would pop another set of lungs to bend his ears.  N' that was how it went - until the perambulator broke, n' Maureen had a gang a' for every spoke.
He lives in a world
Where the money must be earned,
But he's a million miles from that.
He's in the trees,
And on the plains,
Tweakin' out a whistle,
For a melody he's at.
It won't come steady,
Cos his bones are full a' creaks,
There's somethin' in between,
In the solace of the beats,
Wearin' at his face,
With a chisel and a stick,
Keepin' him from peace,
And the song that makes him tick.
It whines at him in daylight,
And it vexes at his soul,
He scratches for the rhythm,
With his fingers at the sail,
Lickin' like a fire,
At the ground around his feet,
Worryin' his innards,
Til the sound begins to speak.
It won't be done in minutes,
And it won't be done in days,
This gon' take a life,
And then some more,
Before it saves.
He's over by the window,
With a caption in the sky,
A singer on the dashboard,
And a chorus in his eye,
He won't go to the mattress,
And he won't go to the church,
He's strummin' through his atlas,
To make the moment work.
It wouldn't be a sickle,
And it wouldn't be a book,
It wouldn't do to pass it by,
Or leave it to the cook,
It wouldn't be a memory,
And it wouldn't let him steal,
The thing that lies between,
Is the picture he can feel.

Late train grabbers saw the Goodhew ambulance draw a corner of Eighth street to a close. Walkin' boarders advertizin' slacked a'while, couldn't make a dime beside a show.  Dumb assed broads were shoulder checkin', landin' heels as sparks, flappin' ornamental deckin' - starin' through the cars.  High noon entertainment with paramagic medics, assimilatin' God, right there, down on the pavement, workin' on a heart cos it was part of some derailment, horizontally at the mercy of their hands, diggin' around a body while the road had other plans.  Cinematic folly, crisp new film yet unreleased, brink stuff, makin' people work, or movin' the deceased, yeah, some old gal from Omaha, on the deck as white as snow, n' no one's gonna think of her in green light city go.  This town's just for doers, ain't no time for any less, can't give way for passengers or someone else's mess.  Fit n' well n' fightin' is all you gotta be, ain't no good you dyin' cos there ain't no cemetery.  This place hails the livin' not the broken or the down, if it's old you're feelin' then you'd better split the town, find some other universe, cos you ain't nothin' here, without accepted currency you're all but disappeared.  So there she was, scraped up n' transmigrated to the zone, sleepin' on the blue light to that last appointment home.
I'm gonna hit this key 'til I'm blue in the face,
I'm gonna shriek this song all over the place,
NO! - keep your book, don't need your know-hows,
I wanna be a player, I wanna make sound.
I can do this thing, watch me n' see,
Watch how I make noise, it'll come outa me,
It's fiery n' simple, they call it a voice,
It makes my chin dimple n' brings me the boys,
I don't need yah tellin me things that ain't right,
I know I can do it, just stay outa sight,
I don't want your eyes borin' into my head,
I sing dammit don't I - just like I said.
Don't point out mistakes, don't tell me - I know,
OK it's not perfect, but man what show!
I hate this piano reminding me how,
I can't really cut it, I sing like a cow!
Call me not to undo dread of buried plough-turned misery, and I shall not bang fear upon your drum.  You and I croon passing feign of yesterday, and long ago our arbitration done.
Wear my ease, for all good clothes are those well lived, not fancy plaid unfathomable hue, lest yours be all out of gay, I give, wry hoof and tickle grimace of my shoe.
'Tis more than fine a legacy to friendship, not shabb'ed trick, last penny to a tramp, fortune gather plentiful a kinship, bespattered words of wisdom 'neath a lamp.
Mark your deeds - your letterings are noted.  Pains to read old garble oft annoy, gelded thane, one eye to blinded marble, thy crucible a thespian destroy.
Keeper of an ark beseech vexation, mere bibelot, I hang beneath your freight, widely hewn for crabb'ed tugs, a station, art to carmaraderie a fake.
You, of all fair enemies distrusted, sly vagabond, a heel, implanted thorn, not forsaken, diamond encrusted.  Come; lay beside our memory, forlorn...



RETURN to Zzaj Productions MAIN page!



'k, alla' you hardcore D.I.Y'er's!  We've added a D.I.Y. forum board!  Simply click on the lil' button below to TELL US wot' you think...



Search this site or the web powered by FreeFind

Site search Web search