song by Wallace Willis, a man enslaved by the Choctaw, but free when he wrote about the band of angels, i’m guessing we all know the spiritual, but not Mr. Willis, another voice lost in time, like Florence Price, first African-American female symphonic composer, her version of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, doesn’t make the radio, or the history books, we can all wonder why
You can listen to the composition by Florence Price here:
joy of not knowing which hip would move next, right, right, left, or invisible hula hoop, my whole waist doing circles, and the music, weezer, sia, or nelly, always while doing dishes, distraction, chore not a chore, but now no more, cue the sad music, mazzy star or the equivalent, daniel don’t dance, vertebrae can’t play with spontaneity
listening to cuyahoga, r.e.m., michael stipe, used to be a household name, like prell shampoo, but now he’s a my generation kind of thing, as in the 80’s, i remember the green tour, when the band went mainstream, didn’t they all try, to get the money, blow up, get bigger, artists and their stage, their platform, grow it, except fugazi, ian mackaye, $5 shows, think about that
The eternal summer laughs, joyce mansour, the name, the face, the poet, jewish-eygptian, born in england, portrait fragments. she was right, the eternal summer laughs, like fireflies, barefoot grass, lemonade, and tanned skin. as tom hanks said, there’s no crying in baseball, save your tears for winter, today we laugh with june.
astrud in black and white, bossa nova posterchild, rio de janeiro summer, probably first heard it in a west village cafe, turned any room into a beach, even in february new york city, samba power, brasil cool, we lost her, ms. gilberto, but the song lives on and on
when i heard that George Winston died, i realized i had no one to tell, no one who would really understand how he transformed piano notes into snow, into darkened pine trees, into music of the winter solstice. transcendent, like time immemorial, i can still see my seventeen year-old self, not making a sound, just listening to Winston, that quiet focus, he taught me to be still, appreciate all that is.
from south carolina, harlem really, street fighter, paddle tennis champion, her younger years spent competing, and surviving a violent father, that story, the one where abuse makes humanity stronger, while most wither away, not to say her name is like serena or venus, fame swallowed by racist history, they let her play, but pretended she wasn’t really there, regardless, althea gibson with the volley, the lob, the slice backhand, the victory
wasn’t what i thought, i thought it was you slamming into me, me slamming into you, but that wasn’t it at all. it was a river, the current pulsating with human motion, spontaneous stage diving, swaying of limbs, giving into the chaotic whole, bodies tributed to the thumping drumbeat, electric guitar, ska/punk vocals. and those who knew, went with the flow, those who didn’t, they got moshed.
her curfew midnight, i sprinted the summer streets of madrid. by metro and taxi, she, an hour away, then an hour back across the capital city. 16 years old, when i could run and sweat, 94 degrees dripping down my cheeks. it didn’t matter, because i always stood by the open window of the metro train, hot air drying everything except the pounding blood in my chest, and i hardly knew it, but this was love. arriving, eyes aglow, to stroll on an ancient moorish pathway, share a morsel of ice cream. 12am, taxi, underground train, back to carabanchel, the far reaches of madrileńo civilization. never a second thought that i would do it all over the next night.
translucent brown bubbles, how else to describe, perhaps dark caramel, better image of sweetness, and this is just the surface, have a coke and a smile, coke is it, i’d like to buy the world a coke, and on and on, streaming backwards in time, all the ads, commercials, inducements to imbibe this drink, that the chileans cursed, leche de los yankees, yankee milk, and to think it will wash away even the saltiest of buttered popcorn, attract yellowjackets like no other, this beverage, this legend, white script on a red can, on a bottle, tingles on tongue, blamed for cavities, craved over pepsi, coffee, or sprite, hated and loved, this never-ending all-american delight.
Daniel W. Polk 