Jazzpoetry by John Sinclair

Before the performance, John Sinclair, takes time out to sit and be quiet. He turns inwards and then without  papers or books he speaks, delivers his texts in true San Francisco poetry style. Here defending the Blues.








 
 "humphf"                by  John Sinclair           

for big red                   

they say monk    

couldn't play the music. they say,    

monk, he limited    

by his own vision                         

& just can't play right. monk,    

he too weird. his music    

don't sound right, and he gets up    

& dances                         

while he's playing,    

like a jackal preacher    

at a revival meeting    

in an old tent in north carolina.                         

they say monk sound too much    

like a whorehouse piano player    

from some pre-harlem ghetto    

stuffed with back-woods renegades                         

& sporting women & gamblers,    

street-level intellectuals. they say    

monk, what is that shit    

you trying to play, you just can't                         

do it that way,    

you too way out baby,    

that stuff ain't you. & monk,    

in his infinite knowledge                          

& wisdom, shoots a grin    

from behind the piano,    

wiggles his ass on the stool,    

lays down another few bars                         

of utter genius,    

turns it over to the tenor player    

& rises to dance beside the piano,     

some more of that old north carolina boogaloo           

*
Even great poets have to enjoy their nicotine  out in the street on a rainy night...