Harry Reed, Poet

Harry Reed is a poet and former professor of African American History living in Boulder

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​ 
                                                                             
                                                          Taking Mr. Jack Home
 
                                                Mr Jack tried standing,
                                                his body flapping, boneless
                                                as an empty croaker sack.
                                                Tried planting his left foot,
                                                instead it tickle toed into
                                                an offbeat jitterbug move.
                                                A small, combative man
                                                who described himself
                                                as intelligently verbal,
                                                his friends said mouthy
                                                as a hooked fish gasping
                                                for air.
 
                                                They all knew how this
                                                was going to turn out.
                                                Once they got him
                                                up the stairs, to his door,
                                                in full view of his wife
                                                and children Mr Jack
                                                would start fighting.
                                                Like a punch drunk prize fighter/
                                                he’d reel into the door jamb
                                                swinging at the object, person
                                                nearest.  Once, the story goes
                                                he swung at his wife
                                                missing her by only a fishing
                                                lines width.   She promptly
                                                decked him and left him
                                                writhing like a Mackerel
                                                on their  welcome home mat.

​  Bullets of Music
                                      Smash the wall
                                      dissolve into powder
                                      yet their full force,
                                      penetrates
                                      without disturbing
                                      surface, paint, lath.
                                       It melds, marries
                                       adding dimensions,
                                       subtleties, a thick
                                       melange beyond music.
                                       A world opening,
                                       closing, shifting, rounding
                                       back onto itself.
                                       Bird in the vortex,
                                       motionless except
                                       for those fingers moving
                                       at blinding speed
                                       and slow accents
                                       almost simultaneously.
                                                                                 old lady’s washboard,
                                                                                 an African calabash,
                                                                                 collard green scents,
                                                                                 cuisines reinvented.
                     Do music bullets kill?
                     Depends.  Leave
                     it at that.
                     What does he see
                     behind closed eyes?
                     Bird filled up caves.
                     Osprey carrying
                     notes wriggling,
                     gasping for breath
                     while quick change
                     comedians wax
                     nostalgic
                     on counter point.
                    Conversations that
                    drift, signal beginnings,
                    new solos etched
                    on primordial spinal cords.
                    ...one ...two ...three
                    galloping riffs
                    meet repetition
                    trying to break
                    controls of written
                    charts, record industry
                    proscriptions, the human
                    ear protecting
                    the human heart
                    lest they all shatter
                                                                    cast iron cook units
                                                                    corn fritters
                                                                    smack dancing
                                                                    down home melodies

                     Raise that bell.
                     Bite that reed.
                     Make ‘em listen.
                     Cry because music
                     bullets are velvety
                     scotch and whiskeys
                     killing you softly.
                     Curse that horn.
                     Tell them bullets to stop
                     climbing the stairs
                     when you want
                     to mount that woman
                     and shut out
                     the screaming
                     in your limbs,
                     and your squeezed eyelids.
                     Buddha offered Nirvana
                    gave no hint how difficult
                    the path.
                    Is the whole world
                    fuckin’ with me?
                   Only the coda knows
                   “and it ain’t talking’
                    ‘til you get there.”
                    Bird bullets,
                    high, sweet, mellow,
                    float above, below,
                    shimmy through cuts,
                    tiny spaces before
                   others could breathe.
                   Music bullets glide,
                   transom,
                   carrying grit
                   like coffee grounds
                   making women grind
                   their hips even before
                   the sound penetrates..
                   Music bullets flying,
                   punching back to the band stand
                   loaded with envy,
                   greed, resignation.
                   But, Bird has taken
                   a be bop lick
                   to another station.
                                                     Trickster, Trickster
                                                     where you at?
                                                     I’m makin’ mischief
                                                     music man!
                   Strings, overlays
                   all music ammo streaming
                   into and out that damned horn.
                   No separation between
                   diaphragm and chamber.
                   All one, all pointed
                   to bull’s eyes some
                   as far away as Mars.
                   Didn’t he know
                   the impact on others?
                   Maybe.  Didn’t she say
                   “he was the most
                   alarmist man she ever knew?”
                   Smiled and from
                   the back of her throat
                   came a long slow hummmmm.
                   Bird heard
                   that hummmmm clear
                   as heels clicking
                   or elevator’s fly wheels
                   catching their breath.
                   It was all music.
                   Flowed into that damned
                   horn
                   and hit the groin
                   making new music bullets
                   scatter gun. The vulnerable
                   ducked.
                   The guilty ran
                   laughing crazily.
                   In the moment of peril
                   they knew, you can’t outrun
                   no bullets.
                   Might as well laugh and wait
                   for the next shattering
                   note.
                   Aw man, Bird
                   just messing with you.
                   Like the one hand
                   match trick.
                   He’d turn slightly.  You’d crane to see
                   and meet
                  that grinning sweaty smile.
                  Yeah, he was like that.
                  But cruel too.  Steal your whiskey,
                  horn and women.
                  But, this ain’t about him.
                  It’s about that little
                  wisp of air
                  behind the pallette
                  waiting, waiting
                  to dive into
                  the neck
                  of that damned horn
                  and emerge spraying
                  be bopping music bullets.
                 Sounds that made
                 Little John Farley
                 glide and fast shuffle
                 like the Nicholas Brothers.
                 but down the road,
                 those bullets,
                 that life, that sound,
                 took Little John
                 just like they took Bird
                and others down,
                down, down.
                Can music bullets
                kill you?
                Like I said,
                depends.                                             
                                                      Miss Mattie,
                                                      Miss Mattie
                                                      you seen them boys
                                                      them music bullets today?