THE GAGLION HIP HOP OF MADAME CURIE --


Night Rides with Dizzy Gillespie,
Charlie Parker and Thelonious Monk
in Radio Drama Produced by some
Mother Fuckers from innards of Jersey

“There are sadistic scientists who hurry to hunt
down errors instead of establishing the truth.” — Marie Curie


1.
I thrive in your ganglion and hip hop
that Thelonious Monk piano quiff
odd séance and sassy rendez-vous
when keys revive after slight touch
to the lips of mons that protuberance
of the human body especially formed
by the fingers, lips and teeth connected
to the magical notes of pubic bones.

When we touch the harmonic puzzle
as we caress the back of lady knees,
not as afterthought, wild to prove certainty
of human sacrifice in magical kingdom
elevated from man's celestial narrow
prudish backdoor fancy nightmare rout.

At the cathedral light plasters against
glass lets weather announce audience
for soul popping serenades brizassed
by Charlie Parker reed dance sax
or keyboard. Thelonious Monk at grand
forte Steinway piano tuned too high
for elementary particles foresaw the
neutrino charmed quarks danced.
He lifted that bee bob de ba da
to create second octave and Russian
designed Prokoviev moon rising over
dancers as they leap to where hunters
cannot find errors or establish truth
in backyard station houses as cops
beat bad motherfuckers with their
lonely exasperation or some
such racial excuse for bad coffee
when the music doesn't play no more.
Jazz reduced the unsettled debt
and underpaid the music simply stopped
so Madam Curie can watch the eyes
arrange the staff and notes to arrange
it with pieces of gold and forgotten stash.


2.
Riding the waves of New York
Sampling the dirty fear and taxi
smell while we listen to the notes
Searching the East River nights
with a cup or spoon, discovery
can be as lost in the mind as that
Uranus smell where the fish
are thrown back lead eyes closed
blind to the theater of revenge
or any other altered state that drifts
beneath our feet as we walk on water
to the outer gates and in the Hellespont
we are drugged with last words and
final goodnights but morning creates
the means to our revival so its peace
we cling to paint, as stitches on cans
of Prussian blue – so much for beauty
when the horizon closes all the gates.

Madam Curie gives up. No one cares
if radium, or X rays, or that nuclear
puzzle will satisfy the endless debate
of how artistry comes near to love
when we dream we fucked a glow
so sweet the miracles all too late.

Gregorian chants of Graz Monks on Pilgrimage
to Dormition Abbey one last day before
that endless spool of music simply cried
when the day, night and seasons slid
away down that rough dirty plateau,
driving cattle by force where children
swept the streets to stay the flies aloft.

 

3/5/06