Communication Is The Outer World's Intersection With The Inner World


Rusti’s Song
I found you in my dreams the other night.
The warm skinned Southern boy you were
when we lived in Washing D.C.
That city parcels memories. Some visit my dreams.
All the more real for their valiant tenacity.
The way back when of it.
Youth’s heat sill sticks to skin like languid
honey pouring humid in summertime.
But our past is found through that multi-cultured hybrid
town, its streets webbed with bridges, the richly flavored
late night people, sweet soul music melting in our pores.
When the sky turned dark, the White House looked
like a wedding cake. Fireflies dazzled, they’d rhythm
through the breeze as we made our way to that great
apartment on Biltmore Street, with its wide
living room, tall French doors, a hall of mirrors
and hard wood floors; and fellow pagans,
friends, crashers, dreamy lust mates and carnal
mistakes; a scatter of books in every room:
Miller, Nin, Ginsberg, Jung. A sly Lenny Bruce
poked the spine of a dour  Schopenhauer.
There was fine music brewing at the One Step Down.
I can still see your face bending close to mine in
the dim lit luster of after hours, in the poetry
of that distant life of jazz, and drink, and all
night talking intense in some smoky place.
How I loved you then.
My vagabond.
My unrepeatable troubadour.
With your gypsy scarves and violin.
That unerring gift of mimicry.
 The wander lust that spanned three continents.
Then crashed and burned on the loneliest night
Yet I conjure you still, you spirit my dreams
you lilt like the Pipes of Pan.
Your musical step, carnival soul
springing to life that warm fuchsia night when
we crept on the grounds of the Chinese Embassy—
vast, green as a meadow… Stardust lifted our heels;
we danced
spinning over the Moon, till a guard chased us down
and we dashed out of reach feeling hopelessly sure
that we’d beat all the odds, and never get caught!
Author: Elena Jones, 2014
Eros Cruising

Full moon lover,midnight dancer
Gypsy free and on the prowl
Cruising through the sleeping city
With your wide coyote smile
Flush with love, hashish and flowers
Your touch is sin, your voice
A crime, singing dusky deep
adagios neath a 1000 neon stars.

Eyes of smoke and winter’s kindling
You plum the dark to reach the fire
And wake the night with sodden kisses
That drench the lips of errant wives
You are the jewel thief in the boudoir
A dark duende, the secret vice
You are a satin sleek beguiler
Who fashions love songs out of lies.

Sly seducer, smooth as roses
Your voice can melt the frozen Moon
Sate the dreams of starving housewives
You are the cookies in their jar
A wicked angel steeped in absinthe
Pearled and gemmed with beads of sweat
You make the ladies thirsty pores spread…
Like tiny city flowers, lapping your breath
An opium kiss and husky sweet tongued lullabies.

This was published in Jerry Jazz Musician it was dedicated to Mike Smith, Terry
Plumeri and John Coltrane

Screaming God All Over the Universe

Sacred neon music opens
whiskey ears, sends trails of
cigarette ghosts twirling round
a tall bass laying down a rich
tasty, sweet, molten jazz swirling
surging through the Cosmo’s curving
the flash of restless drums
cymbals splashing silvery-fast as light,
gymnast hands springing agile like
dancer wired straight to hearts quick ticking
chasing rhythms, melting listeners
drenched in musics smoke and gold
the holy hymns of back street
angels breathing fire, saving souls.
Rushing fingers spiriting piano
keys, blue note epiphanies
peeling off gravity, praising the
heavens ineluctably loud…
When the wild cat saxophone
steps up to the microphone
screaming God all over the
Universe spreading the good news
turning sound into light.

The Sun Rises at the I. C. U.

Lamenting, in that lonely sterilized room
she knew with certainty how that terrible
night would end and if permitted
she’d have taken your place, your
pain your death for herself.

“A mother” ,she said, should never out live her child.”

And stricken by the immensity of her staggering loss,
she wept, until night weary of its shadow surrendered
to the glory emerging from beneath the Earth,
a continent of light rising from the sea,its brilliance
pouring through the room’s window illuminating
its four walls with inescapable deliverance.
Deliverance that overwhelmed the ashes
clinging to your lungs, your hope…your defeated will
And as your heart slowed, then ceased to beat,
she thought she saw you climb from the ruins of your
body and run.

You ran fast, then faster, and faster still
as though running for your life
the rays from the rising sun reaching out to you
anointing your lifeless face in pure gold
on the morning you died.

Author: Elena Jones, 2014


First Album Poetry By Nancy Schaff

1) Jattle boxes,
windows built to tumble run.
Chatter time clocks
and jog seeds inscrambling
Crust crue blocks, crux clocks

2) The wind tells of bay leaf brides
in your sleep, singing child.
Sheep in white, plant your heart
to root in due season, olive greens.
The chariots will proclaim with high cymbals;
the gold awakening arises.

3) giraffes we ride
through lightning spilling

4) The dream in a bronze iris
Snapped to the taste
Of birchbark citruses

From The Neptune Collection

1) The king’s cage spins pale blue meridian walls,
and amber moons sign morning.

Reflected in the first mirror, archetypal symbols-
of- process vibrate subconscious image-seas.

Inevitable commonalities flow through us as we
create together.

Symbols, juxtaposed, define symbols as our role-
functions manifest.

We are washed away, then closer by dynamic seas.

Subtle rhythms transport our dreams to reality.

We communicate enlightenments.

All feel our flow.

JOH (Joe Clark), 1974

2) New London, Conn. May 31, 1974…..Neptune Park, filled with spring rains.
A lightness permeates the atmosphere. The music flows out easily and quietly at first.
Nature sprits and tar box take life quickly. The e flat is an embryo at this point-
it will take a long time to grow to euphoric bells.
The summer sees death coming and then the incantation appears in the october air.
rusti joins in and soon images are taking form.
Days, with snails and bird cages, then joh leads us into the celtic dance.
The road pulls us to the midwest. We plough through snow and come back
with space needle intact and neptune rising as the new year begins

Wall (Matthews), 1975

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