Coltrane's Naima Narrative Transmigrated by Himself.

Coltrane's Naima Narrative Transmigrated by Himself

        tra-la-de-dahdaaa
        tra-de-dab
        tra-tra-de-daaahda-de-daaahh

   formerly of Philly via Hamlet, North Carolina on
   his way to brighter in sound good all around
   (formerly a hard-shell case known for unmuted
   sojourns down needles and crawls around in bottles
   gots key oil polishing cloth swabs rubbing alcohol
   same ligature different mouthpiece--makes

      tra-la-de-dahdaaa

           Naiiiiiiiiima

   freeze frame: Bird heavy-jowled, thick-shouldered,
   slit-eyed, Miles owl-eyed Reaper's stare, sunglasses
   mislaid, J.C. sideways and slightly blurred, unable
   to accommodate another clownishly unmusical minute
   (liner notes by Auld Lang Syne)

   never liked that never liked that never liked that
   feeling of loss of no control of having to do it their way
   to make a less-than-decent living out of self-jive

   expression eternally exploited o blues for a jazzmaker
   orgasmic whines and bleats over and under and
   over and under shredded with reedy pleadings

      "faded on the crowing of the cock," as Shakes says

   from where his is found in her center's sweetness
   scaling toward that twinned completeness
   primitively bleeding devilish screeches

   remonstrations against cracked ceilings
   airless lofts lumpy mold-ravaged mattresses
   as cold as inhospitable thighs tub stained
   with the oils of countless bathers toilet
   ill-bolted to warped floorboards tiny things
   sprouting legs twiggling ears like blue notes

   the stronger the reed, the more breath required
   the darker the juice and stool

      tra-de-dab

   martyr to that timbre cut for a thinner heart

           Naiiiiiiiiima

   demise is intonation without flexibility, what blows?
   without that articulated jolt life will become
   too soft/buzzy, the upper register flattened, the need
   reed pinched shut against the mouth, no peace

   the softer side is for the money denied hardness
   the truth starves the revision eats

        tra-la-de-dabdaaa

           Naiiiiiiiiima

   a wordless song of love and religious conversion
   as we tiptoe thru the backyards of our youth
   freed of stylistic restraints and false analyses this new
   drug called joy derived from melody abandoned

        tra-la-de-dahdaaa

   studied improvisations on the theme of heavenly happiness
   transcribing zip-fingered solos on the air
   for all to be elevated and illuminated by--The Real G

   cascading triplets whistle thru brain tissue
   like reed-stricken altissimo swung from
   a brass-heavy noose from which further swings the divine
   tool of his giving/the player discreetly strapped from alto
   to soprano--an invisible workbook well-worn and
   deemed redeemer from the root up

      adjusting
   timing to accommodate melodious high tones and
   rhythmical explosions armed with piano chordings and
   noodlings while percussive licks and thumps and whisks
   advance upon ears under streaming pedal point
   technique/reach/arc into the ultimate register

        tra-la-de-dahdaaahda

   don't sound like embouchure but rather reed-
   on-tongue inhibitors yanked to retard pain (not
   knowing there was permanent liver corruption
   to come, the number forty scrawled hastily in the
   sweat-dampened margins of a lead sheet) hoping
   for a good response every time/a loose
   and therefore syncopated riveting

   get that smile feeling
   pretend her lips and yours are stretching
   love's tension at the corners of those kissibles
   (his reed tastes of last night's sacred revelations)

   lower lip stretched passionately over the bottom teeth

        Naaiiiiiiiiiimmaaa

      tra-la-de-dahdaaa
      tra-de-dah
      tra-tra-de-daaah da-de-daaahh