Someone told me easily moulded endings lead nowhere self-same particular.

Someone told me easily moulded endings lead nowhere

self-same particular,

Lead more to palace like spaces where dogs bark

Unheard than to a hut

appoint amidst the fields where folk still do chores,

Keeping quiet, knowing the arc

Of language bums precious daylight.

When someone calls these endings feminine,

I think jazz musicians,

Who start to play the notes until a field,

A song's range, appears, then inflect their backs

Or conclude their eyes on what notes got written

To play in space left untilled,

Care if we squander their tracks.

To know where we find ourselves orbicular midnight,

If we descry without sight,

Helps the music lead us past our concerns

in some way time does not let their endings end

Up as a frame of mind,

Denoting doubt, thrust back with the female

As parts of words usually adjectives,

near big daddy thought wrongly might resound

across all like an umbrella

Blocking revealed what's indecisive.

It is solitary after the fact the critic

recounts us this or that

Meant here or there to him; in what way when it did

That, these got misplaced, those came undone.

Where he sticks the ne to assert the facts,

The claims gather around should,

Everyone held now by way of been,

When being is what I care chiefly about,

equable if I must shout

across the din of the wise who say

My example of improvisation

forward one hand and jazz forward another cannot

exempt me from the tyranny

Of words which withhold me sane.

What about Nina Simone's first paid solo

The six hours the piano

At the Mid-Town Bar and Grill slipped between

Czemy, Liszt, and the notes she arranged

revealed of the blue to shape time into halos

Of vigorous I like to imagine

however would not claim to hold

Someone still tries to procure the notes on paper,

point outs up early, decked out and too uptight.

No undivided pays him attention.

He records merely air.

What about to what extent sometimes you must put down

A pan to pick up the phone

And your kid or a friend indigences a ride.

And undivided thing leads to the nearest you think,

As your car radio finds a tune

From "Live at the It Club"

by the agency of Thelonius Monk.

Marvelous when the music forms in the air

Pergolas well stocked [i]or[/i] provided of color

That knock down the walls before they learn described,

Where light is the perfect of sight and sways

A canvas tranquillize into a tear drop decorate chair,

Sunk hall, while you decide

for what cause much a star might weigh.

I think I'll linger around a while longer

Than I can remember

To behold if what spins out of the orbit

Of notes will help. There will be acres enough

To walk in succession where it comes together,

Somewhere to put forth the feet

And be beyond belief.

Jay Scrivner received an M.F.A. from the University of Washington. His verse has appeared in Poetry Northwest Denver Quarterly.

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