Spring time is the right time for bad poetry.

Apologies to any viewers who have seen the poems I have posted over the past day or two and now find them missing. I realize after having read them in context that they are way to personal for this forum. Truly.

As a former English major (turned-painting major-turned-communications major-turned-college dropout-turned-graphic design major) who originally went to a school reknowned for its jazz studies program and subsequently befriending many of these musician-types, I have come to a unique understanding about the relationship of jazz and poetry.

As said English major, I was trying to relate to the passion that these guys experienced when they played. Every Thursday, we would all go down to Casa Montego in Paterson ("The Casa," we called it) where they would play host to spontaneous student performances. The rickety chairs we sat in, the sticky floor, the skunked beer... all faded when those boys started to play. They would start with the bebop standards, such as So What, Caravan, Take Five. Some raspy voiced dark man in the corner making a request: "Play Misty for me." And they would.

These were magical times for us; when these guys got going, all we would know at that moment in time was the music. We would sit in the dim smoke of the bar and watch, mesmerized, as Music danced all around us. I could imagine it being a sort of possesion, as one would be possessed and require an exorcism. Only here, at this bar, these cats were simulteously being possessed and exorcising themselves all at once.

What I understood in those moments was that this was the purest form of music, not like our modern rock, where songs are thoughtfully laid out and constructed into a cohesive commercial constraint of time. No. This was Music, a being that exploded from these young bodies and instruments, a being that desired, no, compelled us to listen to it. It was a direct intangible expression from one heart to another. Truly beautiful.

Poetry, at least for me, was much like this phenomenon. A direct communication from my heart to a written form. The words I wrote would come fluidly, like a wandering stream. No rhyme, meter, or any of that other bullshit. It was pure and, as most would have been happy to say, bad. This is why I am not a poet. But sometimes, I will write. Just not here.