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JULY  2010

The Sax Says It All


 

Let the comment stand with
or without it's Freudian slippage
and forgive me for being the
hippest horned creature in the room,
I mean, the message was clear,
printed on the box, THIS IS A BIG STEP.
Welcome to the wonderful world of
adult activity, your hands-on future
bent on a shiny, machine-brass pipe.

Not for every kid on the block, not
for the timid, only the stout of heart
need apply, I want to be clear, not
just waxing nostalgic here, but to me
it felt like part of the body electric,
tingly with spring loaded action,
an open-this-end project, karmic door
into a new age future of possibilities.

Isn't that what it said, like a thousand
school boy Christmases in one breath?
Was I mistaken, merely taken for a ride?
That very first moment the ride was me,
the ultimate improv, making up life as
it went along, don't get me wrong,  there
were preachy gurus and well meaning
mentors who showed me what was
foretold, welcome to a lifelong hassle, kid.

Music is supposed to be fun, but not
when you're the only one in charge of
where it goes. Just look where it goes!
How many of those lonely notes  like
orphans in the night beg for an audience? 
17 cents a day will keep this note alive.
They can be your notes, too. I gave them
to my doubting folks and troubled kin,
made a big deal how jazz was in, like a way
to speak soul to soul, man, a new religious
song of salvation, saying God is with it,
real gone, out there daddy, just groove.
The sax says cool all over it like when
God talks, walks on stage saying it all.

Order one today, funky lipstick, hot sauna,
vibrator resonator, first gospel reader,
kiss of private stink and creation all rolled
into one - you-got-to-be-nuts-to-own-it
instant vacuum cleaner sales demo,
mental door prize stage appearance,
kill me when my sax case fungus comes
at you with personal exchange and mystic
philosophies of godhead so cool, you know,
this is what you need to hear, so draw near.

You'll get a bent knee, hunched back look,
the laid bare, passed out in the aisle look of
serenity, wet faced cat-like, wild haired nap
of devil-may-care health and nutrition stuff.
You'll get to play the fool for an odd age of
understatement, to overstate your cool in a
rare language few comprehend, better than
old books and Sunday kissing lessons, it'll

be like a glacier of left-over love melting in
a warm beer and you will become what you
behold, and you will announce on the very
first page, spit of notes running down the
paper, trembling in your novice hand, the sax,
your snake of Ophiucus, reed of laurel chew,
wooden vibration of future futility, gas of
no-fault tectonics, tall, cool Elysian brew with 
side order of daily bread, this will be what
the saxophone says, and that...  says it all.

photo by Ray Saunders 1962


happy fourth
 

Jimmy Warner, 2011

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