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cool jazz raps time against hammer riffs – there are not enough cloudy days to gaze as wind whips up a confusion of too many thin lines — do we really want to be any where but here. fret – stress- halfstep into tomorrow’s dance with death’s final mistress. who says  jazz & poetry cannot blow the same sound – a blue note written properly – his howl not mind – a smooth satin line that drapes men and women in weaves that enlighten even grey corners of mine. 

(more exploration of “outlaw bible”)
Jack Micheline, aka Harvey Silver. It’s interesting that many poets – rebel poets- have a Jewish background, what compels these rebel yells? Perhaps the weight of ancestry – the oppressive- nature of WWII. How does one walk with a knife in the back – millions dead, millions who didn’t believe, and the many many who didn’t care to be aware.  a “street poet” of North Beach, a movement gone post-beat, though still of beats, perhaps like New York School 2, thought there are no anthologies recognizing ‘street poetry’ I’ve stumbled upon yet. One of his most well-known poems is an homage to Jack Kerouac, “Chasing Jack Kerouac’s Shadow”.

“Jack Micheline cut his words from gutstrings to make the music of his poems.” – ruth weiss

gutstrings  where are those lines i wrote when tipping that old piano in a seedy bar down while waiting for Waits to sing a reprise about 9th & hennipen. 

Jack Micheline spent his short life giving away poems or hiding them in rafters, books, and hidden spaces.

would you give your poems away to anyone who’d take one –

would you tuck your heart’s blood into a book that shall eventually slip into another hand –

would you keep found lines near you in bed tucked between headboard and floorboards risking a haunting of night dreams or perhaps to conjure one –

would you play lost & found to find the forgotten – how long before your hunger savaged this ghost –

pay homage – a breath breathed life back into wordless lungs no longer hollow — a fallen sun kept you warm until her moon went high

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