A TOUCH
OF JAZZ
Jim
Chandler
© 2004
Chapbook
printed by Thunder Sandwich
The Obvious
the obvious
is so easily overlooked
like the nuclear furnace
eight light minutes away
tossing neutrinos at earth
hot sliders over fir tree tops
catch the corner of snow
strike two
time and age become compression
life shoved deep into
the pit of eternity
black boiling mill at the
center of heaven
smoke galore
life slides on the glassy downhill
falls through the jaws of gravity
rides an emission of particles
eating the faces of clocks,
howls at the hole where
the sun once burned
brightly
I wonder
at this juncture
if the cold
is colder or
if the bones
are older
looking out upon
a spread of white
and still evergreen
bound in arctic
wrapper
it is impossible
to believe
that somewhere in
latitudes south
below the dotted
center circle
there waves
fronds in sea
breezes and sunshine
kisses warm
brown skin
but with the
wisdom of one
who has trekked
such paths
I close my
eyes and let
memory prevail
and soon
find myself
once again
plying
standing on
the prow
eating warm
sunshine
smiling
It dawned on me
that we all sing
songs of self
for others
no matter the key
or tempo
the shades or tones
whether by
big lakes in
long white dreams
or down in
provinces where
the hickory nuts grow
or even in
the realm of
deeper Dixie South
too far below
the Mason D to even
see a shadow
skirt the ground
poems are now
jungle drums on
electric wires
speed of light
transmissions
of thought
or something posing
as thought
poems are purveyors
of what's shakin'
inside and out
up and down
words that fit
or don't
poems are as
natural as
cigarettes and coffee
daylight in the window
news or weather
rattling in the
TV background
maybe even breath
I write no
great poems
this day
just a mass
of words
flung through ether
by marvels
beyond my
comprehension
characters that
come to rest
on retinas
that never burned
my image
in reality
and it dawns
on me that
life may be
much more grand
than we are
ever willing
to admit
Hereafter
Age plays
a dirge
deep in
the hollow of
my bones
soon
I shall become
light as a
feather
float
through space
toward the light
called home
gather around
the campfire
with all those
old muggers
who have
beaten me
to the punch
Hank
yodeling the blues
while oak smoke
cuts the creases
in an angular
face shadowed
by the brim
of a John B.
Stetson
Elvis
shaking a spiritual leg
throwing that famous
crooked grin
and dreaming of
a PB&B sandwich
fried in
butter
Carver
blinking above
pudgy cheeks and
sharpening his
last pencil
missing the final
weed that killed
him more than
he ever dreamed
possible
we are all
gathered by
the fire
ready to
recount the
retreat of
sanity from
the last
bastion
a congregation of
three wise men
and a fool
my dunce cap
bending in
the evening
breeze
I
coulda been
a contenda
sez I
my best Brando
imitation
but hell
you boys need
somebody to
lug the
wood
and say when
supper won't be
served
Crazy
the psycho ward
had gillette razors
with a keyhole
in the end of
the handle
a dude in white
locked in a
fresh blade
for each shave
before stainless steel
mirrors under lights
recessed and covered
with steel mesh
meals were
regular silverware
sans
the knives
and they
counted it all
when
dinner was done
every day they
handed out packs
of chesterfields and
old golds
but only the
main man
had matches
one morning an inmate
was released
he pledged to be
done with the place
mainly a tank
for chronic drunks
later during TV hour
a hue and cry
warrior struggle
they dragged him in
wild and insane
crazy drunk
he'd found freedom
at the nearest bar
gone back to nutland
behind an overdose
of alcohol
thrown in the floor
dosed with
paraldehyde
off to the
rubber room
to vegetate
atop a green hill
above blue ocean
a loony bin on
a pearl of land
tourists strolling
kapiolani blvd never
knew we were
there
Life
I sit around most days
In an old bathrobe marred
By countless cigarette burns
Like a poor man's Hugh Hefner
Except for the half dozen girlfriends
And a case of Viagra in
The basement.
No mansion in Hombly Hills,
Just a simple little wood frame abode
That I have called home on and off
Since 1960, in those spans between
Wives and jobs, blue runs to here and there
Always seeking success and good luck that
Managed mostly to
Elude me.
No Rolls to carry me to the local equivalent
Of the Viper Room, which might be Goob's Tavern
A gun and knife club of distinction
Just an old tattered rider sitting under the holly tree
Gathering dust and bird droppings
Like its owner.
Each day I spend hours sitting here in one spot
In a little room of perhaps 12' x 15' dimensions
Breathing second-hand smoke that would set the
American Lung Association into a slavering fit
Failing eyesight battling the fog to see this
Electrode that gleams in my face until
It's pasty tan from radiation.
I’ve been in this configuration for over two years
Going abroad on Fridays only unless there is
Some pressing need, some essential forgotten
During the last run to the store, the post office,
The coffee shop.
Five years ago the idea of living like this would
Have been unthinkable, beyond my comprehension
For I was out and about, working, gathering news
Bothering people, making a few friends and
A lot of enemies.
Now I understand that I have gotten past
The point that matters, the place where life balances
On the beam, on the teeter-totter of existence
What days are left will come and I will take them or
I will leave them and be not the better or worst for it
No matter which way the cookie crumbles.
It's not that I don't care in some deep place but
That I'm not concerned because, at some point
Nothing is worth concern, worth worry, worth the
Sweat off your balls.
One can't play the game and then blame others
For bad wagers, silly bets better left held in hand
Because the game goes on no matter how soon or
How late you slide the chair back and walk away
From the table.
But what the hell, it's all been sweet this
Long ride down, even the rough parts where
The path went convex against the future and the
Past rushed up in dusty array to cover any
Good deed by accident done.
Be they few and far between.
I want to die on a cold day
the smoke of my bones
sullying a leaden sky
my soul clinging fast
to the wheels
of heaven
groaning over stars
seen from the
backside
light reversed
black holes
whirring like saucers
in a b-movie
riding the tunnel
of light through
a prism bent in
shades of gray
diffused melodic
dispersal of
protons
shotgun approach
to universal nothing
boom scatter
boom scatter scatter
a silent rock band
of negative matter
windmill on strings
of rays
solar wind tooting
the horn of
nothing
it's like jazz in
the void
yeah jazz in the void
all that noise
and nothing
much
Roads
I return time and again
to the familiar theme
of roads.
Roads long and bent
roads straight as the
proverbial arrow, leading nowhere.
We lean into winds on roads
whose culmination always stands
beyond the scope of our eyes,
black lines bleeding stains of
twisted memory down wells
of bent brain tissue.
There is no morning on these roads,
no evening yet to come. There is only
the surge of invisible traffic singing
in the lanes of the soul, the taste of
exhaust gasses yet to be dreamed,
the unknown sound of motors unmade,
the slow slide of clock hands
unmade,
sweeping faces too grim to ponder.
The Arms of Winter
I am certain only
of the arms of winter;
melodious clouds waltzing
above scraggly limbs that
bend back toward summer.
Life has become a rote standard
closely woven of taut fabric,
a mass spread of cold butter on
white bread days, indifferent.
All things age before my eyes,
and in the morning mirror.
Memory bleeds sorrow across my face,
the countenance of one disappointed by time,
twisted in mental kinks by the way things are.
But soon shall come spring or sanctuary,
the long unwinding of stiff limbs-
or perhaps the stiffening of limbs long loose
There is no sunshine in the afterlife,
but then there is no night.
There is only forever and nothingness;
all we seek to avoid and finally,
all we ever want or need.
The Trick to Surviving
the trick to
surviving
is not to
steel the body
to beat
the street tough
you can't
whip
but
to harden
the heart
to turn away
the thrusts
of pain
thrown by
soft hands
that once
touched lightly
with love