Black and White Night Of the Soul for Chet Baker Three notes take flight and drift out the window, down to the street below. In Amsterdam, far from mother, children—one of whom looks like you might have if only, under different circumstances, would that you had it to do all over again. Your absence of eyes belies the sole truth—every outcome is the same. When there is no satisfied, when you are perpetually almost blue, all is addiction: women, cars, jazz. There is the high and then, there is the next, or there are three notes crushed under the tires and feet of Amsterdam. Crab, Tomato, and the Cat's Head Grin (for Robyn Hitchcock) You hold out in front a handful of seeds. To eat the seeds, you must come from seeds sewn before you were born or you will never be born at all. Born on seeds thrown from orifices of the sexual organs of crustaceans long since extinct, all beady-eyed and furry of feelers. Red like tomatoes are not always red, men are not always super— Nietzsche be damned and bespectacled to boot. Furry of cat and the women who move like them, dance like them— on the tops of brick-thick walls— grin like them and groom your face to your chagrin, curl up in your lap to your surprise, and purr— oh, how she purrs. Not Everyone Goes West (for Joe Strummer) Now we listen to the ghost of Uncle Joe: from the burning streets of London to the burning itch of NY City. All the ashes of consequence gather in the sad charcoal smell of burning toast. Uncle Joe waxes shambolic with Ginsberg— speaks of war that has been, war that is, war that will be. War never ends—there is no longer revolution (other than that of the world, the record on the turntable) and the result is flesh and flame. Make no mistake; we are all going straight to hell, boys! In death, Strummer and Ginsberg are two life-weary shamboholics sitting at the mouth of a river in a burned out Chevrolet. Gripped by that deadly phantom, they wait for Brother Bob, but Bob does not care that way. Ginsberg wants to experience his beard in the centuries-dry gas tank of the Chevy. Uncle Joe, the sole stalwart purveyor of soul looks out over the tops of his sunglasses. He knows not everyone goes West, and those who go West do not always find the ocean.
March 8, 2016
Three Poems – Jared Duran