Three
Poems by Ava Leavell Haymon || Author's Links |
Appetite in Great Ones It turns me on, the idea of a man with huge appetites -- JKF, Mickey Mantle, Martin Luther King Jr -- huge appetites combined with what Ellington called "intent." Call it a discipline, the theme that drives them through the variations, but could be it's just another appetite -- one for work. Wasn't Joe Stalin one of those guys? Maybe it's pure libido like Freud said and those cursed with a lot of it lucky if they've got a craft or a mission -- so they move on through, voracious as an earthworm, taking in without recoil whatever comes. They unstick in time while the rest of us, finding the real world unconscionable, only nibble around the edges. Ravenous, they negotiate a composting century -- genocide, physics, astroturf, cholera -- terminal moraine of a retreating millennium. "He's a genius," Blanton said about the Duke. "He's a genius, but Jesus how the man eats." Taboo for Julian Priester, trombone This is the sound of the world breaking apart. Trombone on that yanh yanh whine that makes you want to slap a toddler. The back door of repression is always desire -- hot and nasty, true as what a child knows not to tell. There's no vocabulary for it, the longing. Taboo's the plunger mute, choking off that sigh in the bell. Not quite enough to shut it up. Just the right amount to make it really cry. Rainbow Room for Carroll I was twenty-four, pregnant, cartoon neck-crane tourist in skyscraper city. We DROVE there from Baton Rouge -- didn't know you don't take a car to Manhattan. One of those blissful pregnancies where every time I sat down I'd go to sleep. Went to sleep during a tour of the UN, they made us leave for loitering. Our big splurge: the Rainbow Room in the RCA BUILDING. My first elevator to 77 stories. Duke Ellington at the keys -- this was 1968, you know how you time things by your children -- two or three guys playing back-up. No more than ten feet from the piano, I put my elbow on the table, propped my head, and sank back into that golden estrogen gestation nap I roused from only when I was moving. That's my excuse for missing the great one, but in truth I've never been too good at taking in what happens in the present. It was chilly outside and warm in there where the little tadpole -- beyond category -- didn't have a gender or a name. A new sound twinkled into her round round universe, muffled a little bit on the high notes. Her tiny ears unfurled. Right away, she started wanting to come out, come out where all that close harmony was. |
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