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Click hereFunk that groove.
Kinesiology moves me
bone deep, hip to hip,
slip rocks my cradle.
Liberty is shifting notes
switching in and out of time
to dream in closed eye
synchronicity. This jazz
don’t mind no p's or cues,
just slides straight up,
just twangs my muse.
Walking bass beat rhythms
fallen dancing at my feet.
Wag tailfeathers. You know
sweet blues melt cool,
swallow whole souls neat,
sparkle, flicker into flames
of leaping saxy fusion,
tenor toney, hollow honey
cruising to completion.
This poem was mentioned in the Archival Review thread, in a picking through Lit's archive of over 34,500 poems.
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I can see Langston Hughes enjoying the bee-bop of this poetry. (And I can see why you like Langston....and Neruda... I love Octavio Paz's writings about poetry, e.g., "The Other Voice," and his remarkable book about language and literature, "The Bow and the Lyre.")