Improv 10
The old horn blows in the new gimmick.
Symbols get face lifts, computer font legitimacy.
Nothing changes, you fall on your sword
or run from the same moral scenario.
Tower of angels, lightning and sin.Some joker in the crowd yells:
Look how he keeps his place,
Aw, that shows he’s creative;
All geniuses live like this!Anyone who survives that solo
can smirk on a molecular level.Go on, invoke nameless gods,
wake up and be wild,
open to possession by way-cool spirits,
psionic powers swirling darkly.Endorse the apostrophe,
key in the saxophone solo of words,
daring fingers typing the soulful search.
Inch back through memory,
window booth visions,
highway neon puddle shimmers,
homeless drunks and easy ladies,
the beefy guy who threw you out
so you could be here now.No more nefarious blue omens
amid smoke and blackened laughter.Take the silent approach, long to float,
your body can cool down mid-dream.Someone is waving from her booth
hailing your last remaining recognition,
brain cells frail as pale earth undreamed,
inventory of an empty heart.No confession is complete
without an account of restless youth,
the fierce blood of swing and boogie,
spirit creature lifted gently away,
a god-flower’s singular moment.The way pulls far and lightly.
Each cure, its own ritual guitar,
hangs unexpectedly in the night air,
desperate noodles of innuendo.A surprise working up to an eyebrow
wades through strange whispers,
meditations without subtitles
and stranger beginnings yet to be played.Somehow, you signal the girl in the booth
your inconjuct technophile thoughts ,
blowing in the new roman numeral,
year two thousand poet,
digital instrument capable
spot-shot man
cyber lost trigger person,
targeted by taradiddle
strolling in product retrieval,
trembling in scientific distress,
waking from a near death mental image,
you lay down one last pattern of robot genius,
micro instant recognition of solace and hope
singed by your very own utter hell-bent futility.ŠJimmy Warner Design, 2001