so sometimes I like listening to piano jazz, and compensating for my inability to play anything but the radio by pretending that the keyboard is my piano, as a matter of fact I’m doin’ it now, it’s an exercise I like to call letter pluckin’, and I do it while listening to some of the hippest jazz cats who constantly throw around fingertips like orange sunsets, or fire-ink on a sky paper that turn their banal tarps pale orange with pink tendencies and mellow immediacy that can’t help but weave and leave as soon as it turns the wayward flickering-in-the-distance soul as present as it can get under an expanse it can’t expand …

comparison ‘cause its one of those intellect stretch projects where I take two ostensibly unrelated songs and mesh them together, making clack and smack sound like ding and fling, where background ceases to be reality and those cats who can pound melody are knitted like something my grandma made, through vibrant threads of letter-note, ivory-cheap plastic, Toshiba-smithsonean or whatever else can be considered a piano brand… sense doesn’t mean all that much, and those collages that sit in every template art room kinda sing the same thing, with that ever-present eye featured in its home magazine, clipped with other smatters like a colorful whiz platter glued on and humbled by its anarchy and its ever down to earth lack of specificity… this is what spirituality looks like, a dabbling keyboard thrown into a pot of steaming syllables, bouncing melting conflicting like so many crashes and silly embraces with awkard moments and perfection sizzling at the top and sinking slowly to the piping pit of the aluminum bottom all at once….

I can go along with this type-it-up thing as frantically and finger flyingly as Oscar P and Thelonious “you’re ownin’ this” Monk can glide along their word processor that drops ringlike sounds and slaps them together in a fluid joint exercise that dances around metronomes and shade-rockin’ drummers slightly slappin’ cymbals. They’ve got periods and punctuation, and the flow sometimes gets dropped faster and slower, but it’s always in harmony even if colloquial meets urban and rustic in a cocktail lounge where old professors linguistic tautness gets hopped on like a trampoline, and sometimes the dings match like the cool cat cymbal smackers aforementioned who, sitting on the outskirts of the jump device, lookin’ perpetually to the sole landscape that graces their aesthetic direction make it seem like a tambourine to the ruffled surveyor named sparrow brushing past puffy chunk clouds, makin’ feather-nebula medleys that spiral into straight-up blue and don’t come to an opera house near you. Where’d Oscar go wrong when he slipped into this staircase fall with notes being ribcage slapped ever so gently, while sparrow still sings and hears the slow crackin’ vibes of down-below singin’ paradise to any non-believer

enter the collapse, the song spasms that dance and flail, finertips and garbage pails, trying to fly as wantonly as air force bombers and throwing scrabble letters into the dizzying sweat house that bumps and pumps as though they never met the cracks they crumbled into, swinging and making funny glides away from the distance and towards the inseperable chasms that had no nuances when they say down together to enjoy the relapse of real or the elapse of steel

I haven’t written in a while. The serrated avocado green sits under the word “haven’t” and smatters Microsoft word with the charm of cumbersome grammatical nuances. The blinking letter generator awaits electric jolts of nerve-prodding into the flat letter sequences laid out at my fingertips. A valley of white pulsates underneath a three sentence by six-inch size ten Times New Roman block of invading space fences called letters. Gravity becomes a slow, verbose crawl and the ground is ever-sinking and never approaching.

It’s summer time, and I can [type] again.