Jimi & Bessie in this Place
call this place what you will but
here even long-gone cats &
turtles riffing along on shores of
layers & layers of lavendar
clouds & a bessie smith
greets a jimi from a
more-way-else-outta-there
red or gin house for
ever delicious this fever &
hey jimi! it’s ok, little wings gonna
take you to peachypeyotepebble
shores, & brand-new electriclady
day, everywhere clouds,
cliffs of feathers
blessing every child got its very
own, we will hug or
wail along THIS watchtower, an
empress & a jimi on fire that scorches
only in a good way so that
good-melting hearts of good
cats & turtles & just-folks here, where
the wind cries Ma Rainey too, she winks
at them both & says, you can fish in
MY sea! ‘long as james here anthems
us every hundred years or so, so it’s
really our kinda blue.
Miss Mary Digresses
Miss Mary crossed not my line
but hers, today, my always on-
topic, steady & sweet solid Mary
who’d
never consider batching up a
daily brew of
of feline misdemeanors & follies
a straight-A but never gloat about
it Mary, you’re the
perfect one who
tiptoes you way thru
reckless shelves & tables, here, traverses
my chaos with grace with never
so much as knocking over a misplaced
anything, a cat, here, who
craves order yet never
compaines about
MY mess?, here.
You are the only semblance of
what IS order
in this disordered and panicky
broke-down palace. You are
by some delicious
default of the who-knows, a low-key
queen, here, oh betcha you are
you a
too-stunning too-plaintive
so-imploring so-verdant so-Mary
panther eyes that tear my
heart apart in just the
right way, here,
ok your digression? You
knocked over something, I
can’t even recall what BUT
let’s pretend I’m hooked up
to some semblance of
a polygraph test, ok? (ok I
have an
old detective friend? lame yeah I
dunno?) What I do know,
when I say right here and
now I owe you
my life many times over
and
see, Mary? the needle didn’t nudge nor
blink one eeny weeny
way in any way, as
you serenely blink my way,
hey, it’s ok.
Joanne
a shyness to your
kisses but
there was that dimplish
impish smile, there were
eyes, deep dark eyes
that knew whatever
you knew then. all
this treasure, mine, well,
some of it whizzed
right past my hashish &
acid-laden brain, so
seriously lagging behind my
heart, of joanne, of how to
properly worship caress, this
you that was
you, that go figure, that
after decades now
revisiting, it’s
tonight your smell of
lilacs and earth and freckles and
worn jeans,
your 16 years into being
a very much you, giving
so much
so bravely, always it
seemed. and yeah i thought i
knew a thing or three back
then but not nearly enough
to sustain, revere
such raw sweetness,
to not
have really known back
then to have
really known,
if you
know what i mean.
Mike Rosler’s journeyman journey includes performances at the Village Gate, alternating sets with Doc Cheatham at the Kool Jazz Festival, as well as gigs with greats Vic Dickenson, Cab Calloway, and Basie alumni Eddie “Long Gone” Chamblee, who tho’ a tenor sax, not brass player, taught Rosler one of his secret recipes for weary chops: “find your way to any ocean, anywhere, then stand right on the shoreline and blow softly into the waves…”
The poetry has always been there. But historically there has been more reluctance to attend/read at open poetry events as opposed to musical performances. Yes, they are both art forms, but very different for me in many ways. So only in recent months have I been publicly sharing my poetry online.
