La periódica revisión dominical


Dossier Kerouac: The Beginning of Bop / El nacimiento del Bop (1959) mayo 4, 2009



N. del T: El siguiente texto fue escrito por Jack Kerouac en 1959 y apareció por primera vez en Abril del mismo año en la revista norteamericana Escapade Magazine, una suerte de imitación de Playboy de aquellos años.

En 1995, se incluyó en la recopilación The Portable Jack Kerouac, editado por Penguin Books.

Aquí podrás leer y escuchar el texto en la voz del mismo Kerouac. Debajo, la traducción al castellano.

Traducción: Martín Abadía





Bop began with jazz but one afternoon somewhere on a sidewalk maybe 1939, 1940, Dizzy Gillespie or Charley Parker or Thelonious Monk  was walking down past a men’s clothing store on 42nd Street or South Main in L.A. and from the loudspeaker they suddenly heard a wild imposible mistake in jazz that could only have been heard incide their own imaginary head, and that is a new art. Bop. The name derives from an accident, America was named after an Italian Explorer and not alter an Indian king. Lionel Hampton had made a record called “Hey Baba Ree Bop” and everybody yelled it and it was when Lionel would jump in the audience and whale his saxophone at everybody with sweat, clips, jumping fools in the aisles, the drummer booming and belaboring on his stage as the whole theather rocked. Sung by Helen Humes it was a popular record and sold many copies in 1945, 1946. First everyone looked around then it happened –– bop happened —- the bird flew in—minds went in — on the streets thousands of new-type hepcats in red shirts and some goatees and strange queerloking cowboys from the West with boots and belts, and the girls beagn to dissapear from the street — you no longer saw as in the Tirites the wrangler walking with his doll in the honkytonk, now he was alone, rebop, bop, came into being because the broads were leaving the guys and going off to be middleclass models. Dizzy or Charlie or Thelonious was walking down the street, heard a noise, a sound, half Lester Young, half raw-rainy-fog that has that chest-shivering excitement of shack, track, empty lot, the suden vast Tigre head on the woodfence reiny no-school Saturday morning dumpyards, “Hey!” and rushhed off dancing.


On the piano that night Thelonious introduced a wooden off-key note to everybody’s warnup notes, Minton’s Playhouse, evening starts, jam hours later, 10 p.m., colored bar and hotel next door, one or two white visitors some from Columbia some from Nowhere — some from chips —- some from Army Navy Air Force Marines —- some from Europe —- The strange note makes the trumpet of the band lift an eyebrow. Dizzy is surprised for the first time that day. He puts the trumpet to lips and blows a wet blur —


“Hee ha ha!” laughs Charley Parker bending down to slip his ankle. He puts his alto to his mouth and says “Didn’t I tell you?” — with jazz of notes — Talking eloquent like great poets of foreign languages singing in foreign countries with lyres, by seas, and no one understands because the language isn’t alive in the land yet — Bop is the language from America’s inevitable Africa, going is sounded like gong, Africa is the name of the flue and pick beat, off to one side — the suden squeak uninhibited that screams muffled at any moment from Dozzy Gillespie’s trumpet —- do anything you want —- drawing the tune aside along another imporvisation bridge with a reach-out tear of claws, why be subtle and false?


The bando f 10 p.m. Minton’s swings into action. Bird Parker who is only 18 years old has a crew cuto f Africa looks imposible has perfect eyes and composures of a king when suddenly you stop and look at him in the subway and you can’t relieve that bop is here to stay — that it is real, Negroes in America are just like us, we must look at them understanding the exact racial counterpart of what the man is — and figure it with histories and lost kinas of inmemorial tribes in jungla and Fellaheen town and otherwise and the sad mutts sleeping on old porches in Big Easonburg woods where just 90 years ago old Roost came running calling “Maw” through the fence he’d just deserted the Confederate Army and was running home for pone — and flies on watermelon porches. And educated judges in hornrimmed glasses reading the Ámsterdam News.


The band realizad the goof of life that had made them be not only misplaced in a white nation but mis-noticed for what they really were and the goof they felt stirring and springing in their bellies, suddently Dozzy spats his lips tight-drum together and drives a high screeching fantastic clear note that has everybody in the joint look up —- Bird, lips hanging dully to hear, is turning slowly in a circle waiting for Diz to swin through the thelonious20monk2007wave of the tune in a toneles complicated wave of his own grim like factories and atonal at any minute and the logia of the mad, the sock in his belly is sweet, the rock, zonga, monga, bang — In white creamed afternoons of blues Bird has learned back dreamily in eternity as Dizzy outlined to him the importance of becoming Mohammedans in order to give a solid basis of race to their ceremony. “Make that rug swing, mother, —- When you say Race bow you head and close your eyes.” Give them a religión no Uncle Tom Baptist —- make them wearers of skull caps of respectable minarets in actual New York —- picking hashi dates from their teeth —- Give them new names with zonga sounds —- make it weird —-


Thelonious was so weird he wandered the twilight streets of Harlem in winter with no hat on his  hair, sweating, blowing fog — In his head he heard it all ringing. Often he heard whole choruses by Lester. There was a strange English kid hanging around Minton’s who stumbled along the sidewalk hearing Lester in his head too —- hours of hundreds of developing choruses in regular beat all day so in the subway no dissonance could crash against inalterable choruses in implacable bars —- erected in mind’s foundation jazz.


The tune they were playing was All the Things You Are… they slowed it down and dragged venid it at half tempo dinosaur proportions — changad the placing of the note in the middle of the harmony toa n outer more precarious position where also its sense of not belonging was enhanced by the general atonality produced with everyone exteriorizing the tune’s harmony, the clonk of the millenial piano like anvils in Petrograd —- “Blow!” said Diz, and Charley Parker came in for his solo with a squeaky innocent cry. Monk punched anguished nub fingers crawling at the keyboard t otear up foundations and guts of jazz from the big masterbox, to make Charley Parker hear his cry and sigh — to jar the orchestra into vibrations — to elicit gloom from the doom of the black piano. He stared down wild eyed at his keys like a matador at the bull’s head. Groan. Drunker figures shaded in the weaving background, tottering — the boys didn’t care. On cold corners they stood three backs to one another, facing all the winds, bent — lips don’t care —- miserable cold and broke —- waiting like witchdoctors — saying, “Everything belongs to me because I am poor.” Like 12th Century monks high in winter belfries of the Gothic Organ they wildeyed were listeing to their own wild sound which was heralding in a new age of music that would eventually require sumphonies, schools, centuries of technique, declines and falls of master-ripe styles — the Dixieland de Louis Armstrong sicteen in New Orleáns ando g big Pops Forest niggerlips jim in the white short whaling at a big scarred bass in raunchy nonmgry New Orleáns on South Rampart street famous for parades and old Perdido Street — all that was mud in the river Mississippi, pasts of 1910 gold rings, derby hats of workers, horses steaming turds near breweries and saloons, — Son enough it would leap and fill the gay Twenties like champagne in a glass, pop! — And crawl up to the Thirties with tired Rady Vallees lamenting what Louis had laughed in a Twenties Transoceanic Jazz, sick and tired early Ethel Mermans, and old beat bedsprings creaking in that stromy weather blues when people lay in bed all day and moaned and had it good —- The world of the United Status was tired of being poor and low and gloomy in a line. Swing erupted as the Depresión began to crack, it was the year marijuana was made illegal, 1937. Young teenagers took to the first restraint, the second, the third, some still wandered on hobo trains (lost boys of the Thirties numbered in the hundreds of thousands, Salvations Armies put up full houses every night and some were ten years old) — teenagers, alienated from their parents who have suddenly returned to work, and for good to get rid of that dam old mudo f the river — and tear the rose vine off the porch — and paint the porch white — and cut the trees down — castrate the hedges — burn the leaves — build a wire fence — get up an antenna —- listen —- the alienated teenager in charlie_parker-1the 20th Century finally ripe gone wild modern to be rich and prosperous no more just around the corner — became the hepcat, the jitterbug, and smoked the new law leed. World War II gave everybody tow pats of batter in the morning on a service tray, including your sister. Up from tired degrading swing wondering what happened between 1937 and 1945 and because the Army’d worked it canned it placed it to the boys in North Africa and raged it in Picadilly bars and the Andrews Sisters put the corno n the can — swing with its heroes died — and Charley Parker, Dizzy Gillespie and Thelonious Monk who were hustled through the chow lines — came back remembering old goofs — and traed it again — and Zop! Dizzy screamed, Charley squealed, Monk crashed, the drummer kickied, dropped a bomb — the bass questionmark plunked — and off they whaled on Salt Peanuts jumping like mad monkeys in the grey new air. “Hey Porkpie, Porkpie, Hey Porkpie!”


“Skidilibee-la-bee you, -oo, -e bop she bam, ske too ria — Parasakiliaoolza — menooriastibatiolyait –oon ya koo.” They came into their own, they jumped, they had jazz and took it in their hands and saw its history vicisitudes and developments and turned it to their weighty use and heavely carried it clanking like posts across the enormity of a new world philosophy and a new strange and crazy grace came over them, fell from the air free, they saw pity in the hole oh heaven, hell in their hearts, Billy Holiday had rocks in her Herat, Lester droopy porkpied hung his horn and blew bop lazy ideas incide jazz had everybody dreaming (Miles Davis leaning against the piano fingering his trumpet with a cigarette hand working making raw iron sound like Word speaking in long sentences like Marcel Proust) — “Hey Jim,” and the stud comes swinging down the street and says he’s real bent and he’s down and he has a twisted face, he works, he wails, he bops, he bangs, this man who was sent, stoned and stabbed is now down, bent and stretched-out — he is home at last, his music is here to stay, his history has washed over us, his imperialistic kingdoms are coming.



                                                   *           *           *           *


[El Bop comenzó con el jazz, pero una tarde en algún lugar, en alguna vereda, quizás en 1939, 1940, Dizzy Gillespie o Charlie Parker o Thelonious Monk pasaba por un tienda de ropa para hombres de la Calle 42 o de South Main en L.A y de pronto desde un altavoz oyó un salvaje, imposible error en el Jazz que sólo podría haber oído en su propia imaginación, y aquello era el nuevo arte: Bop. Su nombre provenía de un accidente. América fue bautizada por un Explorador Italiano, no por un Cacique Indio. Lionel Hampton hizo un disco llamado “Hey Baba Ree Bop” y todos lo cantaban; y fue Lionel quien hizo temblar un teatro cuando saltó a la audiencia, zambulléndose con su saxofón entre la gente, entre los aplausos, el sudor y los saltos de los pasillos, y el medium_67200620327pm_gillespie2020dizzy2020the20lighthouse2020ca201975baterista seguía en el escenario, aporreando sus tambores hasta el cansancio. En la voz de Helen Humes fue muy popular un disco que vendió muchas copias en 1945, 1946. Al principio todos miraban alrededor sin entender, luego sucedió — el Bop sucedió — el pájaro voló — las mentes lo sigueron — miles de nuevos jazzeros de camisas rojas y barbudos y extraños cowboys excéntricos del Oeste con botas y cinturones se hacían a las calles, y de algún modo las chicas empezaban a desaparecer — ya no veías como en los 30’s a vaqueros entrando con sus novias en los tugurios, ahora estaban solos, el rebop, el bop entraba en su ser ya que sus mujeres los habían abandonado para convertirse en modelos de la clase media. Dizzy o Charley o Thelonious caminaban por la calle, escucharon un ruido, un sonido, mitad Lester Young, mitad la neblina, húmeda y cruda,  que hace temblar a tu pecho en las bohardillas, en las vías, en los terrenos baldíos, la vasta, brusca cabeza de tigre asomada a la cerca de madera de los basureros en una lluviosa mañana de Sábado sin escuela, “¡Hey!” y corrían a bailar.


Aquella noche Thelonious introdujo al piano una rígida nota fuera de tono para conmoción de todos, Minton’s Playhouse, las estrellas de la noche, las horas de zapadas más tarde, 10 p.m, bares coloridos con un hotel al lado, uno o dos visitantes blancos, algunos de Columbia, otros de Ningún Lugar —– unos de los Escombros — otros del Ejército, Marines de la Fuerza Aérea y Navales — algunos de Europa — La extraña nota hacía que el trompetista levantase una ceja. Dizzy se sorprendió por primera vez aquel día. Se puso la trompeta en los labios y sopló una húmeda imagen borrosa —


“¡Hee ha ha!” reía Charley Parker, agachándose para rascarse el tobillo con disimulo. Se puso el alto en la boca y espetó “¿No te lo había dicho?” — jazz de notas — conversando elocuentes como grandes poetas de lenguajes diferentes en países diferentes con liras, por los mares, y nadie lo comprende porque es un lenguaje que aún no ha nacido en la tierra — el Bop es el lenguaje del África inevitable de América, al avanzar suena como un gong, África es el nombre del latido que fluye aguzado, listo para salir — el repentino crujido deshinibidor que aúlla sordo a cada momento de la trompeta de Dizzy Gillespie — haz lo que quieras — encuentra el tono a un lado, en el puente de la improvisación de otro, con una desgarrada lágrima asomándose, ¿por qué ser sutil y falso?


La banda de las 10 p.m, Minton’s se abalanzaba hacia la acción. Bird Paker, con solo 18 años, tiene una tripulación que parece imposible, salida directo del África, ojos perfectos y la compostura de un rey cuando de pronto te lo cruzas en el subterráneo, te detienes y no puedes creer que el Bop esté aquí para quedarse — Bop o Música Moderna, llámenle como quieran, pero es real, los Negros en América sin iguales a nosotros, debemos mirarlos para comprender el exacto contrapunto racial de un hombre — e imaginarlos en sus 1234171524-miles_davishistorias y reyes perdidos de tribus inmemoriales en junglas y pueblos campesinos, o si no, a tristes perros durmiendo en viejos porches de los bosques de Big Easonburg donde hace sólo 90 años atrás el viejo Posadero corría llamando desde la cerca, “Maw”, recién había desertado del Ejército Confederado y corría a casa por pan — y moscas en los porches llenos de sandías. Y educados jueces con lentes de marco de carey leyendo Amsterdam News.


La banda se percataba de aquel error en la vida, no sólo los habían desplazado en una nación blanca, sino que también los habían desapercibido por lo que eran en realidad, y el error que se agitaba y florecía en su pecho cuando de pronto Dizzy apretaba los labios insistentemente y daba una nota clara, alta, chirriante que nos reunía a todos al mirar — Bird escucha pronunciando tontamente los labios, gira lento esperando a Diz para balancearse en la ola del tema, una complicada ola fuera de tono salida de su propia determinación como fábricas atonales a cada minuto y la logia de la locura, el remolino de su pecho es dulce, la conmoción, zonga, monga, bang — En blancas tardes cremosas de blues, Bird aprendía somnoliento sobre la eternidad, mientras Dizzy extraía de él la importancia de convertirse en Mahometanos para alcanzar las bases sólidas de la raza en su ceremonia. “Haz temblar la alfombra — Cuando dices raza, inclina la cabeza y cierra los ojos.” Démosle una religión sin Tíos Tom Bautistas — hagámosles dignos de los solideos de las mezquitas de la New York actual — extrayendo de sus dientes fechas difusas — Dándoles nombres nuevos con sonidos zonga — enrareciéndolo todo —


Thelonious estaba tan raro que vagaba por las crepusculares calles de Harlem, en invierno, sin sombrero y sudando, exhalando niebla —- Oyó que todo sonaba en su cabeza. A menudo oía estribillos completos de Lester. Incluso hubo por entonces un extraño chico Inglés dando vueltas por Minton’s que se tropezó con el cordón de la vereda al escuchar también a Lester en su cabeza — horas de cientos de estribillos avanzando a un pulso regular, todo el día, y en el subterráneo ninguna disonancia podía percutir sobre estribillos inalterables en bares implacables — erigidos en la imaginaria fundación del jazz.


El tema que tocaban era All the Things You Are… lo ralentizaban y se arrastraban detrás de él a un medio tempo de proporciones dinousarias — cambiaban el lugar de la nota en la mitad de la armonía hacia otra posición más elemental donde su sentido de desamparo se elevaba por la atonalidad general producida por todos al exteriorizar la armonía, el percutir seco de un piano milenario como los yunques de San Petersburgo — “¡Sopla!” decía Diz, y Charley Parker entró para tocar su solo con un chirriante e inocente lamento. Monk golpeaba con sus dedos ansiosos, arrastrándolos por el teclado, desgarrando los cimientos y las agallas del jazz para que Charlie pronunciara sus lamentos y sus suspiros — para sacudir a la orquesta en vibraciones — para adueñarse de la melancolía del destino del piano oscuro. Miraba las teclas con ojos salvajes, como un matador frente a la cabeza del toro. Gruñía. Figuras ebrias oscurecidas en la trastienda, balanceándose — despreocupados.  Se paraban con las tres espaldas juntas en las frías esquinas, enfrentando los vientos, doblegándose — labios despreocupados — afligido, roto y gélido — esperando como brujos — diciéndose, “Todo me pertenece porque soy pobre.” Como monjes del Siglo XII, alucinados por los Órganos Góticos de los campanarios invernales, escuchaban con ojos furtivos su propio sonido salvaje que anunciaba una nueva era de la música, era que en algún momento requeriría sinfonías, escuelas, siglos de técnica, declives y caídas de estilos ya maduros —  el Dixieland de un Louis Armstrong de dieciséis años y del gran Brote de la segregación de labios negros en las camisas de los blancos, zambulléndose en la inmensa cicatriz del bajo del escabroso New Orleans, en South Rampart, famosa calle por sus desfiles, y la vieja calle Perdido — todo eso era el barro del Mississippi, los anillos de oro de antes de 1910, los sombreros de hongo de los obreros, los caballos bufando cerca de las cervecerías y los saloons, — muy prontamente sería suficiente con saltar y pasar a los años veinte, ¡pop! — y trepar hasta los 30’s con cansados Rudys Vallees que lamentan por todo lo que Louis Armstrong se río en el Jazz Transoceánico de los 20’s, la primera Ethel Merman, enferma y 1233524086-thelonious_monk_3cansada, y el crujir de los viejos elásticos vencidos en la tristeza de los días lluviosos, cuando la gente en Estados Unidos se quedaba en la cama todo el día y gemía y la pasaba bien — el mundo de los Estados Unidos, cansado de ser pobre, lúgubre y melancólico. El Swing irrumpía al tiempo que la Depresión empezaba a desvanecerse, el año en que se ilegalizó la marihuana, 1937. Y los adolescentes empezaban por aceptar una primera restricción, y luego una segunda y luego una tercera, mientras algunos aún daban vueltas como vagabundos (muchachos perdidos de los 30’s, numerables en cientos de miles, los Ejércitos de Salvación hospedaban a muchísimos y algunos tenían sólo diez años) — adolescentes alienados por sus padres que habían de pronto vuelto a trabajar, complacidos por haberse desecho del maldito barro del río — y derramaban vino rosado en los porches — y pintaban el porche de blanco — talaban los árboles — cortaban los ligustros — quemaban las hojas — levantaban una cerca de alambre — instalaban una antena — escuchaban — el adolescente alienado del Siglo XX que finalmente maduró y se volvió loco por ser rico y próspero sin ir más allá de la esquina — devino jazzero, bailarín y empezó a fumar la nueva hierba legal. La Segunda Guerra Mundial les dio a todos dos porciones de manteca en una bandeja en las mañanas, incluso a tu hermana. Desde el cansado y degradante swing que se preguntaba que había pasado durante 1937 y 1945 y cómo el Ejército lo había grabado y tocado para los muchachos de África del Norte, haciéndolo rugir en los Bares de Picadilly para que luego las Andrews Sister hicieran el resto — el swing y sus grandes héroes muertos — y Charley Parker o Dizzy Gillespie o Thelonious Monk que habían estado hecho fila para comer — miraron hacia atrás, recordando el viejo error —y volvieron a intentarlo — y ¡Zop! Dizzy aulló, Charley chilló, Monk se quebró, el baterista dió una patada, lanzó una bomba — la pregunta esencial fue proferida — y se zambulleron en Salt Peanuts como monos locos en el nuevo aire gris. “Hey, Porkpie, Porkpie! ¡Hey, Porkpie!”

“Skidilibee-la-bee you, -oo, -e bop she bam skee too ria —- Parasakiliaoolza— menooriastibatiolyait –oon ya 0001r1koo.” Se volvían sobre sí mismos, saltaban, tenían el jazz y lo tomaban en sus manos y entendían las vicisitudes de su historia, su desarrollo, fijándose en la importancia de su uso, cargándolo duramente, arrastrándolo como cadenas a través de la inmensidad de una nueva filosofía mundial, y una nueva extraña y loca gracia los embelesaba, traida por el aire; entendían la piedad en lo profundo del cielo, el infierno en sus corazones, Billie Holiday con rocas en su corazón, Lester, colgado, con sombrero, se colgaba el caño y soplaba perezosas ideas dentro del Jazz, todos soñando (Miles Davis, aprendiendo frente al piano, con los dedos en la trompeta y un cigarrillo en la mano, sacando crudos sonidos de acero, como el bosque pronunciándose en largas oraciones, como Marcel Proust) — “Hey, Jim,” y el resplandor se abalanzaba por la calle, diciendo estoy realmente roto, triste, mi rostro es difuso, arremeto, me zambullo, golpeo, estallo, el hombre al que enviaron drogado y apuñalado ahora está triste, roto y aplanado – está en casa al fin y su música llegó para quedarse, su historia nos ha arrastrado, su reinado imperial se acerca.]



Dossier Kerouac: Fragmentos escogidos






The Subterreneans (extracto)


(…) So there we were at the Red Drum, a tableful of beers a few that is and all the gangs cutting in and out, paying a dollar quarter at the door, the little hip-pretending weasel there taking tickets, Paddy Cordavan floating in as prophesied (a big tall blond brakeman type subterranean from Eastern Washington cowboy-looking in jeans coming in to a wild generation party all smoky and mad and I yelled, “Paddy Cordavan?” and “Yeah?” and he’d come over)–all sitting together, interesting groups at various tables, Julien, Roxanne (a woman of 25 prophesying the future style of America with short almost crewcut but with curls black snaky hair, snaky walk, pale pale junky kerouac_wideweb__470x457044anemic face and we say hunky when once Dostoevski would have said what? if not ascetic but saintly? but not in the least? but the cold pale booster face of the cold blue girl and wearing a man’s white shirt but with the cuffs undone untied at the buttons so I remember her leaning over talking to someone after having been slinked across the floor with flowing propelled shoulders, bending to talk with her hand holding a short butt and the neat little flick she was giving to knock ashes but repeatedly with long long fingernails an inch long and also orient and snake-like) — groups of all kinds, and Ross Wallenstein, the crowd, and up on the stand Bird Parker with solemn eyes who’d been busted fairly recently and had now returned to a kind of bop dead Frisco but had just discovered or been told about the Red Drum, the great new generation gang wailing and gathering there, so here he was on the stand, examining them with his eyes as he blew his – now-settled-down-into-regulated-design “crazy” notes — the booming drums, the high ceiling–Adam for my sake dutifully cutting out at about 11 o’clock so he could go to bed and get to work in the morning, after a brief cutout with Paddy and myself for a quick ten-cent beer at roaring Pantera’s, where Paddy and I in our first talk and laughter together pulled wrists–now Mardou cut out with me, glee eyed, between sets, for quick beers, but at her insistence at the Mask instead where they were fifteen cents, but she had a few pennies herself and we went there and began earnestly talking and getting hightingled on the beer and now it was the beginning–returning to the Red Drum for sets, to hear Bird, whom I saw distinctly digging Mardou several times also myself directly into my eye looking to search if I was really the great writer I thought myself to be as if he knew my thoughts and ambitions or remembered me from other night clubs and other coasts, other Chicagos–not a challenging look but the king and founder of the bop generation at least the sound of it in digging his audience digging his eyes, the secret eyes him-watching, as he just pursed his lips and let great lungs and immortal fingers work, his eyes separate and interested and humane, the kindest jazz musician there could be while being and therefore naturally the greatest–watching Mardou and me in the infancy of our love and probably wondering why, or knowing it wouldn’t last, or seeing who it was would be hurt, as now, obviously, but not quite yet, it was she Mardou whose eyes were shining in my direction, though I could not have known and now do not definitely know-








Chorus 239th



Charlie Parker looked like Buddha

Charlie Parker, who recently died

Laughing at a juggler on the TV

After weeks of strain and sickness,

Was called the Perfect Musician.

And his expression on his face

Was as calm, beautiful, and profound

As the image of the Buddha

Represented in the East, the lidded eyes

The expression that says “All Is Well”


This was what Charlie Parker

Said when he played, All is Well.

You had the feeling of early-in-the-morning

Like a hermit’s joy, or

Like the perfect cry of some wild gang

At a jam session,

“Wail, Wop”


Charlie burst his lungs to reach the speed

Of what the speedsters wanted

And what they wanted

Was his eternal Slowdown.


A great musician and a great

                             creator of forms

that ultimately find expresión

in mores and what have you




Chorus 240th



Musically as important as Beethoven

Yet not regarded as such at all,

A genteel conductor of string


In front of which he stood,

Proud and calm, like a leader

                                   Of music

In the great Historic World Night

And wailed his little saxophone,

The alto, with piercing clear


In perfect tune & shining harmony,

Trot – as listeners reacted

Without showing it, and began talking

And soon the whole joint is rockin

And everybody talking and Charley


Whistling them on to the brink of eternity

With his Irish St. Patrick

                        Patootle stick,

And like the holy piss we blop

And we plop in the waters of


And white meta, and die

One alter one, in time


And how sweet a story it is
When you hear Charlie Parker
tell it,
Either on records or at sessions,
Or at official bits in clubs,
Shots in the arm for the wallet,
Gleefully he Whistled the


Anyhow, made no difference.


Charlie Parker, forgive me-
Forgive me for not answering your eyes-

For not having an indication
Of that which you can devise-
Charlie Parker, pray for me-
Pray for me and everybody
In the Nirvanas of your brain
Where you hide, indulgent and huge,
No longer Charlie Parker
But the secret unsayable name
That carries with it merit
Not to be measured from here

To up, down, east, or west-
-Charlie Parker, lay the bane,
off me, and every body




The Moon Her Majesty


The moon her magic be, big sad face
Of infinity. An illuminated clay ball
Manifesting many gentlemanly remarks

She kicks a star, clouds foregather
In Scimitar shape, to round her
Cradle out, upsidedown and old time

You can also let the moon fool you
With imaginary orange-balls
Of blazing imgainary light in fright

As eyeballs, hurt & foregathered,
Wink to the wince of the seeing
Of a little sprightly otay

Which projects spikes of light
Out the round smooth blue balloon
But full of mountains and moons

Deep as the ocean, high as the moon,
Low as the lowest river lagoon
Fish in the Tar and pull in the Spar

Billy the Bud and Hanshan Emperor
And all wall moongazers since
Daniel Machree, Yeats see

Gaze at the moon ocean marking
the face –

In some cases
The moon is you

In any case
The moon.