Organizing Dialogue, Experience and Knowledge for Complex Problem-Solving

Jazzpoetry by John Sinclair

December 2nd, 2011




Before the performance, John Sinclair, takes time out to sit and be quiet. He turns inwards and then without  papers or books he speaks, delivers his texts in true San Francisco poetry style. Here defending the Blues.








 
 "humphf"                by  John Sinclair           

for big red                   
they say monk    
couldn't play the music. they say,    
monk, he limited    
by his own vision                         

& just can't play right. monk,    
he too weird. his music    
don't sound right, and he gets up    
& dances                         

while he's playing,    
like a jackal preacher    
at a revival meeting    
in an old tent in north carolina.                         

they say monk sound too much    
like a whorehouse piano player    
from some pre-harlem ghetto    
stuffed with back-woods renegades                         

& sporting women & gamblers,    
street-level intellectuals. they say    
monk, what is that shit    
you trying to play, you just can't                         

do it that way,    
you too way out baby,    
that stuff ain't you. & monk,    
in his infinite knowledge                          

& wisdom, shoots a grin    
from behind the piano,    
wiggles his ass on the stool,    
lays down another few bars                         

of utter genius,    
turns it over to the tenor player    
& rises to dance beside the piano,     
some more of that old north carolina boogaloo           
*
Even great poets have to enjoy their nicotine  out in the street on a rainy night...     

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Categories: American poetry, Jazz, Monk, music, Poetry

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