Louis Reyes Rivera
(46) After hour jam
There is nothing now permitted
when the gates & lamps shut down
not a murmur, not a whisper
not a fidget moves about
just the silence of incarcerated
snores is permitted to be heard
just the musk & must of dusk & dust
of socks & sweat & breath
trailing along these corridors of gate & cell
can be haled into the nostrils
of prison numbers locked & penned
Countdown finished
all lights out
every head & body branded with a digit
like the cattle prods made of iron yesterday
the numerical disk recounted thrice
then bedded for the night
Now those vengeful badges can get busy
beating up a wisecrack snarl
or play with one another on the side
sneak a bit on the warmest cot
or simply sleep a tour away
resting for that day time slot
but nothing else permitted
once the gates & lights shut down
Now’s the time for Jazz to flourish
as the dark turns into night
& the light that black could give it
glows beneath a blocked cell’s blight
of muffled sounds resisting
the ordered silence of the law
…Here, among the children of the horn
whose parents were the authors of the song
& for the song were once enslaved
by the sons & daughters of yesterday’s enslavers
by the lords & ladies of deceit
by the upper crust of thieves elite
by the owners of our sweat
by the harvesters of work
by the barons over military might
here, among these children now imprisoned
the jam unfolds in the after-hour spark
you can hear it in the sniffles from each cell
filtering as echoes down the hall
drops of sacred water streaming from the eyes
of men convicted for their music
longing but to be back home
no, no, no, not inmates with their Eye-Dees tagged
no, no, no, not felons doing time
no, no, hell no, never that they’re criminals
justly paying off their victims for a compensation lost
but a burst of instruments locked in jail
searching for a tone unknown
sought & caught, conscripted & condemned
for the lyrics they create
by the dope phat rich super thugs of shame
Oh, there’s a crooked rascal here & there
a Richard Pryor type
the kind that makes you glad that he’s in jail
but the one thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine others
locked up with beside atop beneath
some old cramped damp cell
they just simply didn’t do it & weren’t even there
not at the scene of the encounter
not during the scope of the trial
not even when the verdict
& the sentences got handed down
& never did they ever learn to read
the notes on a scale or a sheet of music
that plays for them a song of love
or teaches them the wonder of our birth
& so for them
in the black & bright of cellblock night
Jazz begins to play
a long and muted trumpet sigh
opens up this after-hour jam
soft & mellow, sad, sublime
letting in a mood unsilenced
to slowly awaken prisoners in their cots
the bass joins in to help a beat pronounce
a steady constant roll of drums
now adding to the texture in the mute
between the two
the bass, those drums
that trumpet’s sigh
lingers as it hovers through the air
with sound’s rapport reaching deep within
the strum of two guitars struttin over, sittin in
now the rhythm section filled
as the trumpet’s sigh brings one by one
alto, tenor, baritone bemused
blending with that melody begun
& with the trumpet comes soprano
in an overlay of sounds
as the trumpet blares & flairs above the rest
: a lynching by the law
a crucifixious burning of another church & home
the hound dog’s scent
a runaway trail
the wars of resistance that were fought
bringing in the melody replete
while those French & flügelhorns
still present in their cells
arise to join this symphony of now
with one long trombone
raising up & counterpointing fusion in the score
the countless welts are heard
the snap of the rope felt
the roasting pit alive
the slow segue
from alto & soprano helps the trumpet cry
as each in turn opens up to solo underneath it all
then the drums dip into Swing
to claim a space their own
the cymbals & the riffs lifting
drumsticks calling back response
the brass comes back to counterplay
between the drums
between the bass
between a trumpet’s lonely sigh
the bass breaks back
guitars join Swing
the brass takes pause
the bass cries out
the drums come sliding back to hit another bridge
now Salsa calls out clavé
as conga skins shout out loud
the island beat maracas sing
of Caribbean seas that roll into the face of sand
pounding waves the congas slap
the shoreline touched
with slave ships now arriving
as maracas smack the marketplace
of flesh selling flesh & soul
timbales pause, then strike-strike two
then pause & strike-strike two again
with shekeres & djimbes ringing
calling on Shango to rise up with & knife the night
the arrows & the spears of vengeance in his hands
as congas urge those dancing seeds to remember Oya too
then the brass changes up & follows suit
like Carib warriors in canoes
raiding slave ships, port & province
smuggling arms like cached rum
dancing to Calypso swim
its dip & swing aching like the longing of steel pans
blending in with pace & pause
then softly changing to a vibraphonic plea
that breaks away & joins with those who want to solo too
now the djimbes and the drumsticks
then return as shekeres & congas
engage to match & shout & bout
as brass comes back
& then the bass
& then the brass
& then the drums again
all guitarred by pick & string
guided into solo’s light
as the bass interplays with a drummer’s rapid rise
that allows for the trumpet to return
bring it back to those initial beats
that first chord from the first song
the melody of a lasting phrase
one lone tone
echoing the night
through the halls
down the corridors of jail
as Jazz bids goodnight
to these brethren still penned in
with no lights left
but the sound of the gates slammed shut.
(47) A defensive pose
“Whenever you sit to listen to some Jazz,”
opened the defense,
“you never really know exactly what compels
the musicians you are hearing
the initial intent in the placement
of a signature just before
the grain that comes behind each note
the books they may have read
the fingering provoked
by which definitive encounter
so vividly recalled
: a kidnapped clan
some stolen land
a branded chest
a lopped off ear
the mother of that bassman raped
the parents of this horn
the uncles, cousins, best friends who
were lynched or shot or charred
into a memory of blue smoke
curling upwards to the sky
hurling space chords barely understood
inside an image conjured up
in the deep groan whisper of a baritone in flight
“You just don’t know which impulsive pulse
had driven the melody to change & break in stride
or what exactly they were thinking
when they made that gig last night.”
(48) Witness: Imagination
“Inside each & every third eye
is the Ocean of Imagination
with no bottom to reach
no shoreline to touch
no limitation self-imposed
“& it is here
in the deep of what we see
where capacity resides
to dream & seek
create & shape
blow the breath of life
& raise into existence
the insides of our we
taking you & me
everywhere within ourselves
to trek & tread
those distant tracings that rise beyond the moon
overpass every planet in the sky
undertake any star & state
that would bind us into borders
bound by fixed condition
tricking us to so believe
we cannot claim the order of the day
or change our destiny ourselves
“But imaginate the possible
: if, out of the forward urge
of somehow since we issued forth
growing out from nothing
into something given birth
from nowhere into somewhere we reach Did
standing on the cusp of what & when
then certainly from here
we can get to any other there
& in the flow of self-determined move
we can change & shape the course of Now!”
(49) Witness: Myth
“Within the measure of a Myth
you’ll find the lie that somehow
we simply just don’t know
the planes of nature all around
the thought we’ve all been taught
: that there is but one horizon
“Inside the measure of a lie
you’ll find reflected in the Myth
the fact that yes, indeed
to rise above the wisdom we each claim
is to see the every Be for what Be is
grow to grasp how much greater than ourselves
are the planes we have yet not known
“And, yes, new horizons
stand & wait on the edge of light
for another struggle to ensue.”
(50) Witness: Rodin
“If you pose yourself a thinker
delving deep into why you
remain the target & a constant threat
to those who keep their slit lips shut
conditioned by the fear they may lose their jobs
just because they yearn to learn a different song
you’ll get caught in the web of a plot
with assassins waiting in an alley dimmed & silent
“That you think has always been a given
in the same way each breath of air
is much too often taken so for granted
but to speak out loud exactly what you think
is yet another matter pending now before this court
“When you dare to let your eyes
tell you what you see before you
giving shape to the substance of your voice
you have risked the consequence of thought
as now you are the object of an anti-leftist sting
stripped of speech & stranded to the right
by the ransoming of evidence deliberately suppressed
& never to affirm the fact that you do matter too
“If you let yourself submit
& gurgitate exactly what you did not see
on a sheet of silenced music
or let yourself be tricked & trained
not to even whisper on the side
that the world men make remains so mediocre
on a planet full of promise unevolved
you become a model to be praised
the subject of a sculptured work of art
placed in front museums or serve as molding
for those caricatures selling fast at Toys R Us
as the gigs you get like the fees you charge
begin to scale into a set of schemes
you will commit against your own
the very treason you say you hate yet now lay bare
“But if it happens you decide to be a fighter
in the struggle for a better order into thought
brought & wrought
against the hunger & the suffer we all curse
you cannot pose for another lawful photo shoot
or as model to a bust
have your likeness posited in public parks
sitting stiff & wondering if the enemy
of Dream & Do
of Can & Am
will let you rust out in the rain
“Like the boxer
you can learn to be the thinker of the act
the actor of the thought
& like the artistry of Johnson & Ali
counterpunching quick
stalking from the shadows of the ropes
jerk & jab
hide & wait
stick, stroke, strike
then fade back into black.”
(51) Witness: Amicus Curiae
“For everything they doin & denyin in themselves
they set to blamin Jazz
for all that scag sellin in the streets
accusatory fingers pointed at musicians
“for every frail & puny frame
tracin & embracin a dream’s
nocturnal tone hidden in a sour note
heard inside soprano brass
lookin but to work that score
the feelin of a song fillin up on dope
gettin high from bein low
hittin hard & soundin dull
poppin veins & smokin hash
then grabbin hold of whatnot space
that stands between a tree trunk’s bark
& a housin project’s buildin wall
noddin & leanin & gradually descendin
hoverin down to lift back up
but never touchin ground
– they put all that on Jazz
“But if you’d’ve asked me then
like you shoulda Bird & Diz
I’d’ah told yuh how I ponder over
why this muse remains abused
by the ringin of the dollar
with a misery repressed
like the instruments you got on trial
: the swellin bulge in the pockets
of producers who wanna own it all
the managers of clubs
operatin like the overseers
Freedom Songs had overthrown
“the rate of pay measured
‘gainst the pleasure of a one night’s take
the censorship of sound
of style & content reachin out
expandin with perspective
the parameters of thought
watered down like whiskey sold
or the substance lost within the bowls of cheap made pipes
“All them Sonnys snagged & bagged
like Stitt & Rollins, Miles
& ‘Trane, Blakey & McLean
or Moody’s Mood locked up tight in rotgut hell
like Billie in a padded cell
‘til each one heard the vicious in the sound
: the creed of greed ascendin
in the midst of longin lost
bringin ‘em to sweat & kick their habits cold
“& if you ask me now
like you shoulda Monk or Max
I’ll tell you ‘bout the music that you hardly get to hear
: merchants makin money
bankers backin by the ton
the launderin of loans & loosely fetted cash
bribin customs
spreadin coke
then placin fault on all them Folk
Who Love To Hear Some Jazz
“But did you ever know a flügelhorn
to own the land that grows the seed
in Bolivia & Peru
or operate a caravan of trucks
loaded up with poppies by the bush
comin in from China through Afghanistan
& into Paris, Rome, Madrid
or like the CIA
“What music did you ever hear tell
took to majorin in chemistry
coca leaves & poppy seeds
stems & flowers placed in burners
frontline, staged
boiled liquid flowin thru a tube
comin back powder dry or cracked
then packed up tight in glacine bags & reused vials
pushed straight through a network’s thrift
thrivin off those hungry veins
hustled hard by weight & rate
“Name me one lyric ever sung
by Grandma Praise Song, Grandpa Dirge
that ever overthrew a government
or bought or brought a military down
hoardin land from peasant farmers
or connin folk who coulda made more music clear
to raise instead a one-crop share
visited by malnutrition
then pay ‘em off with local pesos
&/or sucres, lempiras & the like
“Not a solitary lyric
not a single horn
not one composition can you name
yet, like now, you place the blame on Jazz.”
(52) Witness: Mother G-Flat Blues
“I come from Alabama
Massachusetts & New York
I was made to work just like a mule
& forced to eat that pork
I’m talkin ‘bout
pigs’ ears & pigs’ feet, baby
pig tails, the skin & grime
but I hardly got the part that’s
known as prime
“They took me from my homeland
from the forms I used to know
shipped me ‘cross the great blue waters
like cargo in the hold
I’m talkin ‘bout
ships’ decks chained & bleedin
sharp whips & sounds of pleadin
the moanin & the groanin
keepin time
“I was taught to sing this music
by my mother, Freedom Songs
I was never meant to serve some other
to her longing I belong
I’m tellin you
no man can own his brother
no one can keep another
no woman taken
‘gainst her mind
“I created all this music
dug the ore up out the ground
but they claimed it all was layin there
just waitin to be found
I’m talkin ‘bout
sad songs & field hands weighin
singers, musicians playin
& all of it they say was
unrefined
“But if you ask Alberta Hunter,
‘tell me, why you sound so blue,’
she’ll say she paid for those notes she played
but never got her due
I’m askin you
who owns those record labels
who sells them turnin tables
& who gets the ninety
for the dime
“They make me out a liar
when I refuse to pay the rent
but accordin to my calculations
I don’t owe them one red cent
I’m tellin you
they owe me reparations
owe for incarcerations
& the slavin I’m still doin
is a crime
“They say the Christian Ethic
is to pay each one his due
but I ain’t got the pay they promised
& they owe my children, too
I’m tellin you
pay me for the songs I played you
pay me for the wealth I made you
pay me for my hard earned
daily grind
“I rose up out my heartache
givin birth to modern song
& raised those voices still ascendin
from roots that made ‘em strong
I’m talkin ‘bout
all the forms that live beside you
all the songs that reach inside you
all them sounds you hear are
really mine
“I intend to raise this music
& my babies to be free
to cultivate the seeds of peace
& grow with dignity
I’m talkin ‘bout
livin, bein, breathin, lovin
birthin, raisin, huggin, nudgin
& all of it so natural
& divine…
… & all of it the meaning
of sublime…
…all of it so natural
& divine….”
(53) Nolo contendere
The room was large, the table long
with cushioned seats aligned in rows
along the sides & against the walls
at the far corner to the right
an old & senile Attorney Gee
beside these two commissioners,
one for cops & one for city jails,
their backs against crimson drapes
hung & drawn to hide a sunlight’s stare beggin to break in
neat stacked piles of maps & files
of public notes defaulting
placed beside the table’s legs
the doors of cedar opened wide
like the gates of stores at fire sales
or NASDAQ’s floors at nine a.m.
as one by one the stern cold frames of CEOs
from energy & industry
from cyberspace & real estate
from future stocks & mortgage due
from Interpol & Alexandria
from Downing Street & Wall Street too
from Hollywood & Vine
hurried in & grabbed their seats
flopped their folders top the wood
while Every-Way-I-Can dragged his feet close behind
to take his seat at the table’s dim-lit end
& just as quick as quiet ruled
a cacophony broke loose
as speculators joined
an off-key chatter of complaints
circling ‘round the vocal chords
of dissonant notes passed around
along with pipes of Thai Stick hemp
pulled & puffed by CFOs harping on in E-Flat rants
grumbling how the constant coverage
televised throughout the world
‘bout marching boycotts at the malls
has gone beyond berserk
blighting business dropping fast
“It was dumb-dumb!” said a broker off the top, his tight lipt smirk aimed at both commissioners sitting on the side. “It’s impossible to arrest every single instrument, much more, every form of music and musician. And who else but an idiot would even want to try?”
“The anarchy and chaos on the streets,” the head of Entertainment added, “is heaping havoc on our flow of cash.”
“Even tambourines have left the church to join those free street concerts,” the CFO for Ecumenics chimed in quick.
“Drugs are down to the lowest levels ever scored before,” said the head of Pharmaceuticals.
“…And low tech guns are hardly faring better!” the CFO from Manufactures added to the din.
Coughs and arguments mixing with the fumes from smoked cigars filtered to the ceiling until the CEO from the biggest bank of all entered now and took his chair to there preside at the table’s head. “Gentlemen,” the man began, slyly glancing at the three against the drapes. “It appears that our juridical arena has overplayed its own hand. But this meeting wasn’t called to discuss or assess the merits of surveillance or the quality of stings. We’re here to best resolve how to quayle a public rage now brewing into storms.”
“Did he mean quell?” the CEO who profits over ore mumbled.
“He said quayle,” the CFO from Brooklyn Gas seated to his right whispered in reply, “but he meant quell.”
“Since few of us are schooled in the art of juris delicti,” the banker now continued, “I have asked Getcha here to sit with us, along with these commissioners, to listen in on our behalf. But before we start,” he paused and signaled to his chief accountant.
“Here’s our problem,” the CPA, standing up and flipping through his spreadsheets, took the cue. “DVDs and PSPs just simply aren’t selling. Sales have dipped on new PCs, and, while blogs are running rampant, no one’s googling anymore.
“Three new lines of air-pumped sneakers and tighter pants are moulding in their crates. Even low slit blouses are dangling on the racks, crowded up like workers in a subway car. For the past eight months, at the average rate
of five a month, stalls in malls reported closing down. Game stores and warehouse outlets no longer draw the crowds, except, of course, the ones who come to bottle up the doors. Not even our underemployed are coming
in, and the cost to keep middlemen in adequate position is way beyond the budget, while working staff that do show up are not enough to justify how much we pay to have them supervised.
“Those heretofore most loyal bunch of blue-blood aides are also using traffic jams for not reporting in on time. Some have even stopped to catch those Free Jazz concerts.”
“What are we to do?” the banker interrupted.
And with that lead, the CIA rose up stiff, then passed out charts and cleared his throat. “These we had prepared,” he said, “in conjunction with the NSA,” and paused.
“Here’s the profile we’ve identified – workers striking,
traffic standing, schools and children shutting down; mainstream clubs and concert halls have barred their doors while every sideman not arrested keeps playing to the crowds. These Folks Who Love To Hear Some Jazz
have grown accustomed to the Open Mic, insisting that our judges are the ones who need to be in jail; overpaid pundits who analyze the news discussing on the air how to implement communal supervision over cops,”
he paused again. “And all of this has reached that point where the only music being heard is on the streets and in our jails.”
“What these facts do not address,” the Chair rejoined in full, firm tones while staring at the judge, “is the reason why we’re sitting here today – how to rectify the situation facing us.”
A long pause fell as Every-Way-I-Can tried to grasp the Chair’s suggestion, groping for a set of words to satisfy the banks.
“Of course, it’s too late now,” Getcha carefully began, “what with all the media and the marching and the fact that the trial itself is coming to a head. Even as we speak, both sides are preparing their summations.
“I do recall,” he hesitated, still searching through his words, “a principle in law last used by Spiro Agnew when nothing else could do – nolo contendere means exactly what it says,” he paused again, mulling over what to add onto his text.
“No lo what?” the mining giant asked, perplexed.
“…contendere,” Getcha clipped right back. “It means to say, I won’t contend, allowing one to deny the charge without the need to lie. Perhaps,” he stopped, “it’s something we could use.”
The Attorney General in the back immediately reacted. “How you gonna not contend within your own judicial process?” as muttering and mumbling broke back fast throughout the room.
“The Chair now deems discussion closed,” the banker forcefully announced. “That’s exactly what you’re going to do! This trial cannot conclude – no summation from either side, no deliberation, and sentencing won’t do,” he stopped, his piercing eyes now glaring at the three not seated at the table.
“You,” he pointed to the senile Gee, “will so instruct your prosecutors,” then turned to face the judge. “Getcha here will immediately adjourn without a date set down for reconvening. To play it safe, offer every lawyer connected with this case more promotions and retainers than either side can handle. The rest will follow suit – simply put, we set it up as if to say there never was a trial,” the banker grinned. “All we have to do is stop contending.”
“I can work with that,” both CIA and NSA jumped at once.
“We can put a team of hackers into play and make the paperwork and records disappear,” offered up the NSA.
“In other words,” the Chair came back. “A raid never did take place. And with no records to verify otherwise, Jazz was never put in jail. In six months’ time, the public will forget that Jazz and Kin had ever been arrested.”
“But if you do that,” the Commissioner of Corrections quickly interjected, “who’ll be taking up the spaces in our city jails?”
“Who else?” retorted the Commissioner of Police, then rhetorically replied, “if not the ones who threaten our quality of life. Just don’t call them musicians anymore. Instead, use a different batch of catchwords; call them
predators and pimps, career criminals who deserve to be locked up – boosters and burglars, deadbeats and grifters, wife beaters and suspected terrorists, hooky-playing teens and absentee parents, squeegee men and unlicensed vendors, loan sharks and number runners, petty larcenists stealing sodas off a truck, low level dealers and distributors against the common good; better yet, drunks and derelicts who defecate in parks.”
Not to be outdone, the CIA rejoined, “We can whisper to our editors at every city desk to kill or screen whatever myths reporters try to file. I’ll order them to push, instead, stories stressing crime.”
“Stop hiring their sidemen,” quickly added NSA. “Don’t let them headline anymore; refuse all suspected bandleaders access to renew their passports; pull a raid on every brand new venue for serving as a drop-off point for ganja and cigars or operating backroom poker games and cutting every pot.”
“Stop using them as teaching artists working with the youth,” the chief of cops segued back. “Don’t even mention music in the schools.”
“But how to make a profit out of such a plan,” Real Estate’s Chief of Staff wondered with a question.
“Corporate inroads into prisons,” answered back the Chair. “And you,” he coldly stared at Real Estate, “will target areas where musicians are likely to reside, then raise their rent and mortgages, while I’ll adjust the interest rates on penalties and subsequent foreclosures. Any snags come into play, the Feds will handle.”
The head of cops swooped back in, “Once they’re evicted for defaulting on their payments, we can have ‘em all arrested for panhandling in the streets.”
“…And the IRS,” CIA added to the stew, “can do the same to those who mail their tax forms late. And anyone caught prerecording incompliant music can be linked to gangs and drug cartels with foreign ties. And while they’re being processed through the courts, ignore any reference to those occupations listed on their RORs.”
“I can put more cop shows on the air,” quickly chirped the head of Entertainment.
“Get the sociologists in on this,” quipped a major publisher.
“Psychoanalysts, too,” butted in an aide-de-camp for drug related Rehabilitation, then looked to see if he’d overstepped his bounds.
“And while we’re at it,” the chief of cops chipped right in, “I can triple the number of SCUs currently in place.”
“That’s good, that’s good,” Every-Way-I-Can agreed, “but what should I tell my tribunal?”
“Yeah,” the jailer said. “And what am I supposed to do with all that music now locked down? Can’t just let ‘em go!”
“We’ve come this far,” the Chair broke back, “the rest should be as easy. Without referring to those five demands, we’ll ask Justice to set up a Joint Interstate Judicial Review Board with the staunchest judges chosen to investigate themselves. As for those musicians still in jail, both the CIA and NSA can come up with a plan. No one here need know their details until and if reported in the news. And even then, we can plausibly deny whatever question posed. And on that note, I’ll entertain a motion to adjourn.”