Trackless Tracts Revisited

No train of thought on the track
Of chain reaction

To the café
Called abstraction

Where age is
A broken record skipping

Just for the hell of it

As jazzmen sometimes scream
Buoyant riffs that tiptoe

Through tulips atop the roof gardens
Like birds at play

Until the future is

A retrospection
On apocalypse

In antiquity’s
Private collection.

No train of thought
Or inherited

Just rumbled rambles

Of revelation
Riding an escalating

Squall shaping
Into a streaming storm
Of consciousness coming

& going like zephyrs
Zooming in a zealous flurry

At the zero hour
Of Earth waking
To the flight of a newborn

Chasing the clouds away.

No train of thought
Or sanctimonious

Merely moments

On the montage
Of mynd, remembering

The corridors

To everywhere from the edge
Of nowhere. No train

Of thought, just ordinary
Moods, & hearts

With standing room

Only, between moments
Of night & day

Sundry as the soular
Paths ahead of me.


Xcerpt #4 — Ode to Langston Hughes

(the return of the drum)

This rhythm
Your vision

To begin again

My umbra

Of blue. you told
Me, “bear in mind that death
Is a drum…calling life to come.”

In the wombiverse
Rooted like
Thoughts coded in the cord
That is mind, I know I’ve grown,

From a seed
To the soulflower
Blooming like “tomorrow bright 
Before us,” calling

You to me as though a beat beyond life
Still you drum the psalms
Of faith, hope and love’s azure

On fire, burning beneath beautiful
Ones not yet born, where age

Is embodied in innocence
Of the sun kissing the horizon
But for us to

Drum “a world” where everyone is free
Seems too perfect a dream for Mother Earth to conceive
Still/birth and its many complications are always rough on


A Beautiful Trip

By the time I got to Woodstock
I had witnessed
The House of a rising Son
At the crossroads, down
In the delta of a Mississippi
Still burning. Then,
Waded my way up Ol’ Man River
To Chicago & conjured cosmic reign
Till dawn rode the blue train, alongside

Howlin’ Wolf, Willie Dixon
& of course Muddy Waters,
Inventor & epitome
Of a down home blue electricity
Often heard, but
Seldom seen, until the coming
Of Jimi on the last
Of those 3 days of peace & music
Where he bled light & shed sound
On his Experience, in a technicolor
Vision of purple amazement.
By the time I got to Woodstock

Needless to say it was the final day
Of a beautiful trip
To utopia laced with euphoria…
& when he came out
There was no “excuse me”
Necessary, because I
Was already there with him
Kissing the sky.
From the very first riff
Of his star-spangled rendition
Of Francis Scott (in a distorted) Key
I rode higher than the highest
High on the rays of the sunship
Horizon, absorbing
The spectrum of humanity
All around me. Wishfully,
Thinking that Jim Morrison
Just might walk on stage,
Smile at Jimi & segueway
Into “this is the end, my
Beautiful friend…”
(but destiny just wouldn’t let it happen).


Analog Soul (coda)

“Let’s not dwell
On the semantics of life’s
Syntax, or any
Of its distortion to static,”

Said the record to the phonograph;

“Life has surface noise,”
Said the needle buried
In the groove
Of the record, “end of story.”

©2017 MDSHall

Twilight Sounds of Summer Madness

“seems like nighttime brings the breezes…”
                                        –David Henderson

with reckless abandon–

                    i mutter
to myself
                  as i tiptoe
                                      up the spiral stairway
to the stars
                        shout bright back at me, of yearning
                                                                               to hear
the tones technicoloring the blackground of Night–
taking flight through foreshadows of tomorrow
closing in on
                        forever, closer than we
                                                                   could ever be to free.
traveling in and out of  her nocturnal world
                    through her auguries
                                                           and incantations
with rhythm as the passport to where life plays
by ear…
               just listen,
                                  as Night hums
                                                              after hour antidotes
                                   of summer madness
                                                              through the bass
                                   and the drum.
               just listen,
                                   to Miles with Bill Evans,
                                                               Cannonball Adderly
                                   & Trane  ad lib “Kind of Blue”
                                                                breezes of a magnum
                                    opus called jazz, riffing
                                                                wherever the heat of Night
                                    dares them to go.
                                                                     but, wailing blues mere words
                                    will never show.
               just listen,
                                     as Night becomes
                                                                        the slow grind
                                     of bodies to a crawl.
               just listen,

with reckless abandon.