I busted out my saxophone last night and played it for awhile. Since my guitar skill has plateaued for the time being, I thought tossing another instrument into the mix might increase my skill-to-hours-practiced ratio. Since I have a tape deck now, I can listen to my blues method tapes that I’ve had for so long. My jaw and tongue and lips are sore. Oh yeah, gotta write a poem.

A bit on the ghazal. This one isn’t specifically erotic, but it might be sensual in the broadest terms.

The farmer is carrying a spade, a loaf
of bread and a face like limp stalks of celery.
An old dog follows.

If the world rests on the back of a giant turtle,
what does the turtle rest on? And what happens
when the turtle goes into its shell?

Shuffling cards, a husky saxophone, exhaust smoke;
incongruously, in my apartment. Two blocks away
a tattooed barista does her taxes.

Perpetual motion in stillness, three notes
on a blues scale and a picture of a jellyfish
in the ocean.

A blind woman on a bus knows her stop
by the play of sun and shade on her face. If she
sat in the other aisle, she’d ride for eternity.

Comments and conversations on this post

  1. i like. a lot.

    stanza 2 answer: a tsunami.

    really, this poem just made my morning. thank you adam.

  2. she so wants in your pants.

  3. no, i just wanna salsa with him. 🙂

  4. Now I’m hungry.

  5. for salsa? or salsa dancing?

  6. Adam, you’re always hungry. Hoggy.

  7. *belch*

  8. get yer own schtick, harvey. i’ve got belching.