root too

[revolutionrabbit]

roots have slipped me by
never was rootin
or tootin, tried give shiny hoot

maybe jazz soot
maybe the roots made in Africa
like Pharaoh Sanders, like SunRa
Monk was like moot or ruby my dear

they all think they know about this that other
but that is not poetics, where the roots grow
in some world we have not found yet
but let them woody fingers grasp at

deep where the poet drinks the root potion
way down deep where them word lines grow
becoming a sound like doot doot doot
not so much tryin to say what it is
but to tell it like it is, like some written wind
that sound glow where it reaches low

the rain falls up, the river roots fall like woot trees
in a woods where nobody hears them, or
maybe we hear the poem that slips down
through the rays of sun light in the dark branches

hear the silent foot falls of all those rare impressions
in the sediment of sensations once dug them diggers

[mnaz]

yep, diggin'

guilty.

[mnaz]

forgotten roots. even the word is strange. where did they come from and go, or maybe they just was, as ever was, at least as we can see. who knows..

[still.trucking]

it beats me where them roots comes from


forgotten roots
a memory
from a remote consciousness

Freud's lament
where ever his mind wandered
a poet had been there first


"the world revolves around the writing hand"


Pardon the ramble Herr Rabbit

I was
rootless till the seventies when
I read Kerouac and Ferlinghetti
Went over the road for thirty years
Stumbled on Litkicks
and I have read more poetry in the past ten years than I had in the previous sixty.

thanks for the dwelling

"To exist in a given place or state: dwell in joy."

[revolutionrabbit]

I came from a blip
out of the shape ship
it wasn't like I knew
or I was missing a zip
a dipper big
making me trip
it was a burst of memory
but not the normal definition
of that word wonder
more as all and something else
it reminds me of the word jazz
a word that has a sure history
that unfolds its cool letters
that holds both dark and light out
of sight, out of mind too
of poet speak sound, that ripple
on the wave of mouth sight noise
in that opening moment, she wrote

I remember looking up at Frisco
at tall buildings that seemed to melt
into the fog down toward the 60's 50's mist
were telling poetry books
in the city windows to smile at the sky

I stood there as the shimmer fog held hands
with the hip mist, lost in some rip in the fabric
of time, one with some rift in the amazing drift
yes, this is the shift of zeros
and the moon comes from out those sly clouds
like a sun that has been drenched in mystic honey
but before that, still there and maybe also there
in that strange alley between here or there, city
lights and that famous cafe they named Kerouac
alley, late, when you find yourself wandering down
the jasmine and the ginger, the neon spice, a poem

waving at you the silent distance
calling you to keep moving toward that flowering
that "touch of the marvelous" that travels with
fragments of poetry that rides the residues of talk
that fills the voids as they walk through walls of voices
that first utter sputter shutter like concrete discrete
a match lit in a midnight ocean of whiskey and whisper

no, if we understood what the philosopher, that one
or that one two, must have meant when he griped
those words in his Pleroma breath burst asunder
and broke with memories and meanings, sought
to repair the air mirror that floats there into pages
that come from those leanings and finds some poet
hanging out in a century and a thread of reason
running through his head at that ungodly hour when
the bars close and slinky shadows play with frisco wind

ah, his words now curl around him like a 50's 60's beat fog
all those wild wonderful clamoring scenes dance with late