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Forf fiftieth anniv. of Shape of Jazz to Come album / revsed

The time is now / Homage to Ornette Coleman . . . 12" x 18"

Poster Text


The time has come

The shape of things to come
came playing a plastic saxophone.
That was 50 years ago, Ornette riffing
like the real, reaping what was sown.   

Having memorized the whirlwind's song,
he played it all night long
as God & America covered their ears
too frightened to interfere

Writing in cursive on bottom left:

Tomorrow is now because the sentence that leads to it was written yesterday



No place else to go

All day, heavy rain. In
the afternoon
it cascades
from the lilac tree's


Soft gray sky, the color
of the mind falling asleep.
I remain awake.  

Soaked grass.  Walking on it is  
to disappear.  Deep
deeper.  As if
the ground's toothless mouth, the maw
of a hope long ago cast aside, will now allow you
to hike down
its tongue
into . . . where?  But no.  The lilac tree says no.

The rain
doesn't stop.  I look up.  The lilac
tree's flowers
stream water on my face.

a shower under lilac flowers
in the rain. Should it
or shouldn't it
please me?  Tine
stops.  What is
a moment?  What does it mean
to open a door?

This is my
reprieve.  Soon
it all starts again.  
I stand in the rain.


While listening to someone sing

I don't want
anything or need to know anything
else.  So what
if I hear

someone singing?  Is it
(the song)
immortal?  Of course

not, but even if
it was, how
could I
reconstruct in my mind
why it is?  Even

the most discerning ear
doesn't survive
long enough
to listen long enough
to figure out
such things.  Therefore

I want
nothing, there being
nothing I need
to know
beyond this -- the ear's

Consequently, songs that arrive
only half-alive
& deformed, as if

with withered calves and thighs, possess
the only lyrics
I can grasp, their words strapped

into leg braces that
weigh too much to let
the music roam
too far from home, let  alone
rise above
the ground.


No Don't Leave I'll Be Lonely
he yelled.  There were open books
everywhere in the room, but no
knowledge.  How can I
he wanted to know
keep her for good?  At the edge
of so many words
that made no sense, he taught himself   
to dance without moving.  Eyes closed
with her in his arms
he concentrated on oceans pounding beaches
in a single strand of her hair.  He found
so many beautiful shells
in the sand of her flesh that he became
a beachcomber and never left.  How many
times a night they fucked and in what
positions only they know, as only they know
the shape of what   
they gave birth to, if giving birth
is really what you call it. 


I Find My Way by Instinct 

Brighter than sunlight
the darkness makes me
squint.  I can't remember  
anymore how I got here.  A few Coors
at a Los Lunas bar
and then this:  just as

a prayer rose to heaven
from Jesus' mouth in Gethsemane, so
my tongue ascends, a call

from my soul, to
your clitoris, and then
a long while later

lying stilly
we each listen to sounds
unheard before:  in
another country
an ant walks across a porch  
and, even further off, a single

sandgrain shifts its weight
long before morning  
on the moon.


Writer and translator Hemang Desai also sings

Hemang Desai sings at the Talent Evening 2012 of NVPAS




Savari is a new online publication and dialogue space devoted to issues of importance to India's dalit, tribal and other disenfranchised women. 

Its "We Are" page begins as follows:

We are adivasi, bahujan and dalit women. Here we share our thoughts about our lives and the society we live in, including conflicts with the self, family and community. These are perspectives from our history, and our dreams for the future. Here we are in conversations with each other, with the men from our communities, and others.

Inspired by our foremothers, the free spirited, knowledge bearing, community healers of the Saura people, this space is named Savari.

The sitre is worth exploring.  Click here.