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haiku #206

in your foyer a

sign: "please leave boots at front door,

my heart is tender"

—kalamu ya salaam

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Another Memory Haunts Me

yesterday was hot

enjoyed a long drink of cool

water—thought of you

—kalamu ya salaam

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Concert Excerpts

featuring Kidd Jordan

& The Improvisational Arts Ensemble

08_Intro.mp3 Listen on Posterous

09_The_Whole_History.mp3 Listen on Posterous

10_Negroidal_Noise.mp3 Listen on Posterous

11_Waving_At_Ra.mp3 Listen on Posterous

12_Landing.mp3 Listen on Posterous

Every note, every word was improvised in concert.

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07_Rainbows_Come_After_The_Rain.mp3 Listen on Posterous

Rainbows Come After The Rain

(featuring Tim Green on soprano saxophone)

Rainbows come after the rain

If I don't touch you in the flesh

I'll see you in the dreamtime

If I can't hold you in the present

The future will know our kiss

Everything that keeps us apart

Just makes our coming together stronger

And all the hard hassels of today

Will be sung as funny lyrics tomorrow

In the rainbow sweetness

Of our love song

—kalamu ya salaam

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06_Unfinished_Blues.mp3 Listen on Posterous

UNFINISHED BLUES

(featuring Walter "Wolfman" Washington - guitar)

sometimes i never

think of you

other times seems

like i never get through

seasons pass, rain falls

i never think of you

some recorded singer sighs

i wonder how you do

the ache in my heart

got a key

to my mind’s back door

comes and goes

as it please

i don’t miss you all

a the time

just

sometimes

—kalamu ya salaam

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05_Hard_News_For_Hip_Harry.mp3 Listen on Posterous

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04_Miles_Davis.mp3 Listen on Posterous

Miles Davis

(featuring Kenneth D. Ferdinand - trumpet) 

Greta Garbo is credited with saying "I want to be alone." Except I'm sure by "alone" she meant: away from you lames. I want to be where I can be me and this place is not it. Then she would blow some smoke, or pick her fingernails, or do something else nonchalantly to indicate her total boredom with the scene. Miles on the other hand never had to say it. He made a career of being alone and sending back notes from the other world, notes as piercing as his eyeballs dismissing a fan who was trying to tell him how pretty he played.

Here this man was: Miles Dewey Davis, a self made motherfucker, a total terror whose only evident tenderness is the limp in his smashed-up hip walk, like he can't stand touching the ground, the cement, the wooden floor, plush carpet, whatever he is walking on. This man who, considering all the abuse he has dished out to others as well as all the self abuse he has creatively consumed, this man who should have died a long, long time ago but who outlived a bunch of other people who tried to clean up their act. This pact with the devil incarnate. This choir boy from hell. This disaster whose only value is music, a value which is invaluable. If he hadn't given us his music there would have been no earthly reason to put up with Miles, but he gave on the stage and at the studio, he gave. If there is any redemption he deserves it.

As for me, I admit I don't have the music, but so what? Perhaps in time you will understand that I really don't want to be here. I don't want to be loved or to love. I...

Perhaps you will understand that once you don't care, nothing else matters. I don't need a reason why to hit you. Why I'm letting you pack and split without a word from me, without any "I'm sorry," or anything else that might indicate remorse or even just second thoughts about what I've done. Instead, I'm cool.

Just like Miles could climb on a stage after beating some broad in the mouth, I cross from the bedroom where I knocked you to the floor and go into the living room and put "Round Midnight" on. The unignorable sound of Miles chills the room. I stand cool. Listening with a drink of scotch in my hand, and a deadness in the center of me. Anesthetized emotions.

As you leave you look at me. Your eyes are crying "why, why, why do you treat me so badly?" I do not drop my gaze. I just look at you. Miles is playing his hip tortured shit. You will probably hate Miles all the rest of your life.

You linger at the door and ask me do I have anything I want to say. I take a sip nonchalantly, and with the studied unhurried motion of a journeyman hipster, I half smile and drop my words out of the corner of my mouth, "Yeah, I want to be alone. Thanks for leaving."

And I turn my back on you, trying my best to be like Miles: a motherfucker.

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03_Danny_Banjo.mp3 Listen on Posterous

Danny Banjo

(featuring Mr. Danny Barker on banjo & vocals)

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02_My_Story,_My_Song.mp3 Listen on Posterous

My Story, My Song

(featuring blues guitarist Walter Wolfman Washington)

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01_Congo_Square.mp3 Listen on Posterous

CONGO SQUARE

the oumas indians prepared this place for us

centuries before our arrival

a sacred spot where corn festivals

were celebrated & as the colonializers came

they pushed aside our hosts

& introduced us in chains

& by the late 1700s we somehow

recognizing the sacredness of le place de congo,

we somehow, and the how of our persuasive methodologies

is not clear at this moment, but nevertheless,

even as slaves we crafted and created a space

where we could be free to be we

and thusly we countered the sacriligousness of the french

giving great homage to our ancestors as well as

giving praise & thanx to our red blooded brothers & sisters

this is an oral libational toast

to congo square

to native americans

to our ancestors

who made a circle in a square

and gave us a way to stay ourselves save ourselves

from the transformatory ugliness of america

which refuses to recognize the spirituality of life

and celebrates death with crosses & crosses, double

& triple crosses, the middle passage the first cross,

christianity the double cross and capitalism

the ultimate triple coup de grace cross of our captivity

but the terror of crosses notwithstanding

we sang, we beat, we be, we was & is

hail, congo square

our african gods have not been obliterated

they have merely retreated inside

the beat of us until we are ready

to release them into a world that we

re-create, a world heralded by the beat

be, beat being, beating being

of black heart drums

heart beat heart beat heart be/at this place

at this place be heart beat be we

beating place in new world space

beating being in place

in new world preserving our ancient pace

our dance is the god walk

our music, the god talk

first thing we do, let's get together

circle ourselves into community

no beginning no end connected together

and singing ringing singing

in a ring

second let's be original

aboriginal / be what we were before

we became what we are, be bamboula

dance, be banza music, and sing song words

which have no english translation

third let us remember

never to forget even when we can't remember

the specifics we must retain the essentials

the bounce the blood flow the feel the spirit

grow energy, must retain and pass on

the essential us-ness that

others want to dissipate whip out of us

but no matter how much of us they prohibit

deep inside us is us

remains us inside

& needs only

the beat

to set

us free

the beat to free us

it is morning, a sun day, a field w/out shade but dark

with the people black of us in various shades

eclipsing the sun with our elegance

we are centuries later now

and still this sacred ground calls us

to remember / to beat / to be

beat CONGO SQUARE be CONGO SQUARE

beat be beat be

remember

—kalamu ya salaam

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13_Why_I_Don't_Leave_The_Apartment.mp3 Listen on Posterous

Why I Don't Leave The Apartment

Until After Ten Some Mornings 

i like to lay

in the curve

of your physique

you breathing

into the black

of my hair

the pressure

of thigh

to thigh

the beige softness

of your inner hand

slow moving

across

the tubular darkness

of my arousal

my

left arm reached

back massaging

the supple

flesh of your

lower back

for long minutes

quarter hours spent

with nothing

but skin

& pleasure

between us

—kalamu ya salaam

_____________________

Kalamu ya Salaam – vocals

Stephan Richter – clarinet

Wolfi Schlick – reeds

Frank Bruckner – guitar

Mathis Mayer - cello

Georg Janker - bass

Michael Heilrath - bass

Roland HH Biswurm - drums

Recorded: June 14, 1998 – "ETA Theatre" Munich, Germany

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03_Epiphany--Misterioso.mp3 Listen on Posterous

Epiphany

(something like how nia feels to me, xcept, this one is not really abt her)

god sent me / here / she said / & smiled / when we first met

glowing / & unblinking / she looked me / brown eye to brown eye / which wasn't easy / seeing as how she was only five-three / maybe / sneaking up on five-four / one of them no make-up / womens / wearing a mixture of clothes / tie dyes / silks / colored cottons / whatever gave the impression / the vibe of red / yellow / gold / green / & a couple of blues / nobody has a name for yet

i wanted to say / well / god / must have been / mistaken / cause i ain't sent for nobody

well, not really sent / it's more like / i was called

oh shit / i thinks / to myself / she's one of them / touched people

later / when she reads / some of her poems / honey nectar tart sweet aromas / explore the air / around us / fill my ears / & it is i / who am touched / by this woman 

this woman / i'm with / this woman / i will always be with / no matter / what happens / whether we separate / or stay together / there are people / places / experiences / that become you / contribute to / making you be you / people you can never unfeel / un-be / leave behind / even when they are gone / they are there in your particulars / the rush of your breathing in the dead of sleep / the timbre of your sound / singing to yourself / speaking to another / they are there / anyone who has been truly intimate / remains / impressed inside

later i learn / how this woman / has a way / of appearing before me / with every vision i get / like, i wake / in the middle of the night / to play a dream tune / & she is already up / waiting for me / with the lyrics for our next song / fresh ink on soft paper / she knows where i'm going / before i get there

what i mean / is not simply / her physically being there / because sometimes her body / still be in bed / but her inspiration / in my head / be tongue licking my imagination / how else could i conceive / except impregnated / by some emotion seed / she dropped / into my soul / when i was busy / not consciously paying attention / to how she was subconsciously / moving me

so what / could i do / but submit / to the beauty / touch / spirit intelligence / of this hip / bundled laughter / looking up / at me / one soft autumn day / in the late years / of my life / ? / you dig?

& that's how / i met / my second / wife

—kalamu ya salaam

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01_Fireman's_Ball_-_take_#2.mp3 Listen on Posterous

Fireman's Ball

glistening in the heated night glow

yr arced torso radiates

the sculpted bronze intensity

of an earth toned ewe passion mask

yr hypnotic breasts

are brown mesmerizing eyes, yr nipples

dilated pupils aroused into 

elongated surprise

yr navel a heavy

nose

flaring 

with every sharp breath

& listen

that dark forest, yr sideways mouth 

silently chants the sacred syllables

of my secret name

as i plunge into the discovery

of its musky depths

unable to stand 

i joyously recline

jumping in the happy immolation

of yr explosive flame

______________________

Kalamu ya Salaam – vocals

Stephan Richter – clarinet

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07_Sharing_Is_Hereditary_Lament_For_My_Father.mp3 Listen on Posterous

Sharing is hereditary

my four foot-eleven mother was world wise yet unburdened 

by the cloying cynicism sophistication so often suggests

she projected a generous spirit adeptly balancing gifting 

and keeping her nose out of other people's greed, and 

equally, my burly country bred father taught us 

the eternal lesson: regardless of how you looked 

or what others thought, there was no wrong in doing right

the curatorial joy of their prescient caring shaped three 

strapling sons who continue to strive to match inola's 

exalted social statue and to embody big val's prophetic 

folk wisdom, our parents offered the treasury of themselves 

and thereby ushered our entrance into the sanctuary 

of responsive and responsible manhood wherein we fulfill 

ourselves by emptying our hearts into the life cups of others

—kalamu ya salaam

_________________

Kalamu ya Salaam – vocals

Stephan Richter – clarinet

Wolfi Schlick – reeds

Frank Bruckner – guitar

Mathis Mayer - cello

Georg Janker - bass

Michael Heilrath - bass

Roland HH Biswurm - drums

Recorded: June 14, 1998 – "ETA Theatre" Munich, Germany

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09_Govern_Yrselves_Accordingly_Ask_Me_Now.mp3 Listen on Posterous

Govern Yrself Accordingly 

i have dismissed 

the minister 

of emotional defenses, 

distributed 

confetti to all 

the guards and given 

faithful and ever vigilant 

caution 

several days off 

the city 

of me is well ready 

to joyously receive and 

rainbow celebrate 

your unanticipated but 

nonetheless profoundly appreciated 

arrival into the intimacy 

of our space 

know that you are warmly 

welcomed for howsoever long 

you should choose to stay 

here, you need no keys 

no door is locked to you 

every window is open 

feel free 

—kalamu ya salaam

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01_Ghosts.mp3 Listen on Posterous

GHOSTS

i have the smile of my great-grandmother seeing the end of slavery

& you have the hairline of an uncle/an aunt

who never pressed nor otherwise chemically altered their hair

only fools don't intimately know ghosts,

the dna of humanity, leaping like porpoises slick out of the sea

and back into our walks, our mannerisms, the way we giggle

when nervous, blush when aroused, or spit fire words

in sputtering ocher anger facing back the cannibalism of capitalism

ghosts are

just spirits fluttering angel breaths thru our corpuscles

the wing hum of hummingbirds motivating us to sound

snatches of remembered songs, lyrics formerly unheard

in this lifetime, psychicly transmuted across eras,

mali melodies maintained, aural treasures from our undying befores

face east young people, face east

imagine each line in your hand an ancestor

how well do you know the thoroughness of yesterday,

the arching influence of the previous century, the retrograde

of rationality, so slow compared to the velocity

of history smashing into the protons of personality

imagine, your voice is the texture of sun yat sen singing

a freedom song, your social erectness the reincarnate posture

of sitting bull standing barefoot his clear eyes kissing dark earth,

imagine, your breath the aroma of emiliano zapata biting the bullet

of revolution and spitting fire on the butts of robber barons

and dark-faced overseers who are the psychological sons

of simon legree in their twisted brutality towards their own people,

the definance of your unsurrendering war stance could be ghana’s

yaa asantewa hurling up the west coast facing down british buns

confient that the religion of resistance will always outlive

the technology of repression, you could be the heroics of history,

a phantasmagoria of sacred strugglers vivifying the surge

of timeless protoplasm which careens through your veins

and gives substance to the willfulness of your animated engagement

with the omnivorous enemies of the planet earth

ghosts are

sacred illuminations coloring our stratagems and meditations,

they are the realization of sanity, the moment we truly understand

just how wicked the west actually is, the translucent

lights on the front porches of our spirits beckoning, guiding our

soft footsteps on the path, heading back homeward bound

dancing into the social circle of our collective selves

ghosts remind us

each individual is more than one, a communal hope chest

of ancient dreams actualized in the present

i believe in ghosts, i do

because i would be soulless matter otherwise

i would be some french rationalist trying to intellectually manufacture

& market the focus of life as the ego of thought, would be

some compassionless corporate ceo with spiritual arthritis

uninformed by the blessings of sharing, while pretending

that material possessions elevate morality as if you are what you own

rather than are what you do/be in relation to others and the world

ghosts

do not like vaults and crypts, nor fences and forts

real ghosts prefer sensitive personalities and wild open spaces,

every time we inhale a leaf shakes,

a tree or a weed offers us breath

give thanks to the grass for our daily inhalations

i am not a mystic

but i know there are ghosts

in the fecund topsoil which progress

callously covers with concrete,

i understand the reality that dust and dirt are airborne bones

pulverized by time into tiny particles

a rose by any other name is still the collected essence

of our forebearers grown through the life cycle into a fragrant state

of petal soft beauty on a bud whose shape is nature's re-creation

of the vaginal portal, whose redness is an honoring

of feminine life force and the blood value of matriarchy

if you do not believe in ghosts

where do you think your spirit will be

when the corporeal temple of your familiar

crumbles into seemingly insignificant pebbles of peat, or

when your temporal sanctuary dehydrates

once disconnected from the moisturizing of life's cosmic juice,

when the way station of your flesh altar no longer receives offerings

& when you revert to what you were before your human being

was conceived and made flesh via the union of your parents,

won't you be a ghost then?

there are literally millions of lives in your little finger

the karma of colonialism will not be undone

not unless and until the ghosts that reside

in the hosts of color worldwide can find a culture

which resonates daily contentment,

there will be no end to the wandering search for the promised land

unless and until ghosts can live

inside the wholeness of beating hearts synchronized

in embracement, respecting the healing touch

of every manifestation of life no matter how small, obscure,

or ostensibly insignificant,

no calming the tempest,

no mediation of the disruption of our heritage

not unless and until ghosts can emigrate

into a peace filled community of souls such as we

ought to be, vessels of awareness, responsible in our openness

to offer wholesome residences for the motion flow

of history seeking future,

there will always be a wailing issuing out our mouths

unless and until ghosts can live and

comfortably reside, live, and rest inside, rest

in peace, rest in us

ghosts

peace

ghosts

rest

ghosts

in

ghosts

peace

ghosts

rest

ghosts

in

ghosts

us

 —kalamu ya salaam

______________________

Kalamu ya Salaam – vocals

Stephan Richter – bass clarinet

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02_When_You_Said_You_Loved_Me.mp3 Listen on Posterous

when you said you loved me 

what did you do with it

after you didn't anymore

after the rain of love dried

after laughs

after baths

after toast & watermelon

after cups of water in the night

after morning smiles & phone calls

i know what i did with mine

i have a wall of pain painted

  nigerian indigo,

  created lyrics for a howlin' wolf,

  fashioned a mask of brown sadness,

  & in a midnight hour

  buried love's corpse quietly

  watching dry eyed

  as the heart-red crypt slipped

  peacefully deep into

  the sea of my experiences

  where the brackish-green, obsidian

  sealed sepulcher shall sleep

  untroubled by resurrection attempts

when you said you loved me

i never thought of it in the past tense

what did you do with it

after you didn't anymore

—kalamu ya salaam

_________________

Kalamu ya Salaam – vocals

Stephan Richter – clarinet

Wolfi Schlick – reeds

Frank Bruckner – guitar

Mathis Mayer - cello

Georg Janker - bass

Michael Heilrath - bass

Roland HH Biswurm - drums

Recorded: June 14, 1998 – "ETA Theatre" Munich, Germany

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12_Exit_Left_Monk's_Mood.mp3 Listen on Posterous

exit left

when i came to i didn't know where i was

on the ground, prone, near the levee bottom—i blacked out

while jogging, got up, walked home, still laboring a bit

between deep gulps i told nia as much as i could remember

my brother is a cardiologist, nia urged me to call him

tuesday morning early i take an ekg and the results are so disturbing

keith schedules me for a battery of tests an hour and a half later

i still have a meeting to do in between, my blood pressure was normal

i reappear, am radioactively injected, get wired up and climb on

a treadmill, lay under a nuclear camera, chat as though nothing

was wrong, submit to a sonargram, nia is there the whole time,

the results are negative, acceptable, i did not have a heart attack

keith can not determine the etiology of the alarming ekg

but i know the hard truth: at fifty i am almost through

i am dying and perhaps there is a metaphysical reason

no physical break down showed up on the machines this time

as the world unravels around me i coolly center the resulting chaos

within the calm of my karma's core—this is how i exist: i dare to do

all the good i can, i accept the uneveness of chance, i simply love

life for what it is and when my time comes, i am not afraid to exit

—kalamu ya salaam

____________________________________

Music—"Monk's Mood" by Thelonious Monk

Kalamu ya Salaam – vocals

Stephan Richter – clarinet

Frank Bruckner – guitar

Georg Janker - bass

Recorded: June 14, 1998 – "ETA Theatre" Munich, Germany

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01_I_Look_But_What_Is_There_To_See.mp3 Listen on Posterous

I Look But What Is There To See?

look

ing for

you is like

standing

on the track

staring at the space

left

by a slow train

what done long

gone

around the bend

only

the whistle sound

faintly

in the air

and the ground’s

vibration

felt down

to your toes

nothing

more.

—kalamu ya salaam

_____________________

Kalamu ya Salaam – vocals

Stephan Richter – clarinet

Wolfi Schlick – reeds

Frank Bruckner – guitar

Mathis Mayer - cello

Georg Janker - bass

Michael Heilrath - bass

Roland HH Biswurm - drums

Recorded: June 14, 1998 – "ETA Theatre" Munich, Germany

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