Untitled  

This is a poem constructed

to the smoke jazz

but the record player has been stolen

There is a man whose words

go down invoke the 

prairie

rush of chinook

He has a junk out 

clock for a heart

But it's ticking ticking

tricking the steam engine riot

rush of a generation

revolution

His words the poetry

smoke bebop sock hop Jazz art

of picking up chicks

and the river Styx

damming

the river of death

the picking up of chicks is real

dadeo the rest is myth

But the river of life never runs out

It scream out out out

And the old wisecracker of the

trinity of voice explodes

light strike across a dark in times

of prairie sky

ashes to ashes

bones to bones

stir up thought cyclones and dust

Zen of master of whiskey and blue jazz smoke

Respect hold life from your words

Hell is not ready for you yet

And heaven far to boring

So i guess your here like the snow

forever and for years

And i wish it so

And i write it so

And i wish it so

And i write it so

And i wish it so

And i write it so

ANd the clock is ticking

dadeo

for a while i longer i hope

breath it in the sweet notes of prairie landscape.

© 2006 Philip Jagger