Steve Dalachinsky - JOY SPRING (riffin on Clifford) - for Bill Dixon

JOY SPRING (riffin on Clifford)

- for Bill Dixon



1.

the moon makes its own music

tonite

somewhere

music that seeks to constantly

interrupt itself

a piece of something already a part

of some thing

a grain of flavor

fading into grainless nerve endings

fractious parcels

sailing through the window

there

a view / a circumference

a broken piece of

volume

in the magazine fill the bucket

here

a rebel walk

i give to you / you give to me

whatever you give to me

tune yer ears

bowpie –ring oh the seem real

blue pink rose

this new street we’ll call it

EXTRA PLACE.



2.

nite displays itself like a slain lover

whose bench was once a tree

slain lover cries / exclaims

I YEARN FOR BEAUTIFUL LANDSCAPES

there beneath the awning



yawning light

water falls - grapes

crush in the stomach

wine is born

i’m not sure where i am or

for how long (i’ll love you)

some rain in the once empty chambers

of my bowels

all weird & strictly romantic.

3.

i’m a lucky guy

& can tenderly dream of

sunset eyes

knowing nothing about books or

prayers negative values

the symmetry of youth

desired placement

optimum opacity & ghost images



i am in the middle of a straight line

puttering away

exposed to the dark rocks

bright metal

dark trees

against an overcast sky

& the white-against-black mood

of the music

blind to color yet able to visualize

history’s vanishing letters while

beholding agitation.



4.

the man from the forest

weaves

a clock of hammers

eggs tick the promise of how-good-it-re

ally-is aways

bell/wind of whispered flutters

echoessssssss plurallllls

a sense of patches

grand mar rocks the steepness

& you lie there

old & young / thinkers in a story of…

enjoyin yerselves

devoted to the limitations of the scale

& how to triumphantly overturn

IT.





dalachinsky 6/17/10