What klezmer I've coaxed
from my rough flugelhorn
plays taps at your heels.
Why is my instrument wrong for your needs?
Too long have my boots bebouched
on your barren fields. Hands joined,
are you one with your sisters?
You jut from the lineup, though costumed alike.
(In the town of Bekesaba, each gown is unique.)
You'll dance for the rowdy crowds, dance
now for me. I crave the taste of peach ice cream.
Weave tatters of pink, leave orange-white trails.
(This scratchy collar of organza grows tiresome.)
Come, shark girl! Lay healing touches
with black-handed gloves crested yellow.
Snap-twirl and weave! Bow.
Dress right and salute.
Pull down your pennants at once and surrender!
Then lead me off-field to my spit-valve, alone,
where I must doff my shako.
******************
The klezmer I've coaxed from my rough flugelhorn
plays taps at your heels. Why
is my instrument wrong for your needs?
My boots have bebouched on your barren
fields too long. Hands joined,
are you one with your sisters?
I'll pick you from lineups, though costumed and blonde.
(In the town of Bekesaba, each gown is unique.)
You'll dance for the rowdy crowds, dance
now for me. I crave the taste of peach ice cream.
Weave tatters of pink, leave orange-white trails.
(This scratchy collar of organza grows tiresome.)
Come, shark girl! Lay healing touches
with black-handed gloves crested yellow.
Snap-twirl! Glissande! Bow!
Dress right-- I salute!
Pull down your pennants at once and surrender!
Then lead me off-field to my spit-valve, alone,
where I must doff my shako.
*******************
The klezmer I coax from my rough flugelhorn
plays taps at your heels. Why is my instrument
wrong for your needs? Too long have my boots
debouched onto your barren fields.
Hands joined, are you one with your sisters?
I pick you from lineups in four-guarter time
(though in Bekesaba, each gown is unique)
You'll dance for the rowdy crowds, dance now for me.
I crave the taste of peach ice cream.
Weave tatters of pink; leave orange-white trails.
(This scratchy collar of organza grows tiresome.)
Come,shark girl, lay healing touches
with black-handed gloves crested yellow.
Snap-twirl! Glissande. Bow. Dress right and salute.
Pull down your pennants at once and surrender!
You lead me off-field to my spit-valve, alone.
And I must doff my shako.
*******************
I would strut to the bows of your weird parapet.
The klezmer I coax from my rough flugelhorn
plays taps at your feet. Boot heels
grind fescue on long-barren fields. Lithsome
legs stretch out and retract; hands join,
you are one with your sisters.
Throughout this summer of lime-chalk grids,
I'm tempted by sips- just bitter ades;
you'll dance for the crowds;
now dance for me, I crave
the taste of peach ice cream.
Weave tatters of pink; leave orange-white
trails; this scratchy collar
of organza grows tiresome.
Come, shark girl, lay healing touch
with black-handed gloves crested yellow.
Bring in the harvest, the fruiting of wine.
In the town of Bekesaba, each gown is unique-
down to the petticoats and crinolines.
Dance to the moon month, the gathering feast,
with sprung bottle perched gaily on head.
Weave tatters of pink; leave orange-white trails. (This scratchy
collar of organza grows tiresome.) Come, shark girl,
lay healing touches with black-handed gloves crested yellow.
Snap-twirl your Enfield ->dress right->; I'll salute.
Pull down your pennants at once and surrender!
You lead me off field to my spit-valve, alone.
And I must doff my shako.
I've marched to your tunes
on these hot, lime-chalk grids? Succumb
while your hips swish bitter ades?
I would strut to the bows of your weird parapet.
I would row my boat to the middle of your lake.
plays taps at your heels.
they dance this slow dance to the fruiting
of wine, with sprung bottles perched gaily on heads.)
Whose whittled staff snaps to song in your hands?
Why is my instrument wrong for your needs?
Your lithesome legs
pop furrows of thunder from ungrateful boots.
stretch out and retract.
You'll dance for the rowdy crowd; dance
now for me. I crave
the taste of peach ice cream.
Boot heels grind fescue
on long-barren fields. Hands joined,
you are one with your sisters.
cat·a·falque
1. A decorated platform or framework on which a coffin rests in state during a funeral.
Your lithesome legs stretch out
then retract.
The klezmer I coax
from my rough flugelhorn plays taps
at your feet. Why is my instrument wrong
for your needs?
what do you practice now,
Whose whittled staff do you wave in the air?
skirt your hips
epaulet, sarong
In Bek'saba, the gathering feast is suggested by fruiting,
drunk bottles perched gaily on head
Who are you with now, taking his pulse?
With hands joined, are you one with your sisters?
what ruby song slips from your fingertips
hand to mouth in rude encounter?
Your lithesome legs
stretch out and retract. Boot heels grind fescue
on long-barren fields. Hands joined,
you are one with your sisters.
Why march, play your tunes
on these hot, lime-chalk grids? Succumb
while your hips swish bitter ades? You'll dance
for the crowds; dance now for me. I crave
the taste of peach ice cream.
You'll dance quite rowdy for burgeoning crowds.
You'll dance for the rowdy crowds; dance now for me.
I crave the taste of peach ice cream.
Weave tatters of pink, leave
orange-white trails. (This scratchy collar
of organza grows tiresome.)
Come, shark girl! Lay healing touches
with black-handed gloves crested yellow.
Snap-twirl my Enfield. Dress right and salute.
Pull down your pennants at once and surrender!
You lead me off field to my spit valve, alone.
And I must doff my shako.
chacon gout
pirouette, dress right, half-step, double-time, salute, present arms, parade rest, attention, skip step
stomp you left and drag your right
Sing to the harvest, the fruiting of wine.
In Bekesaba, each gown is unique-
taffeta petticoats and crinolines.
Dance to the moon month, the gathering feast,
sprung bottle perched gaily on head.
I'll savor your taste of peach ice cream.
I'd cave for your taste of peach ice cream.
Who are you with now,
