PAUL HOSTOVSkY's Unlikely Loves : Blues Harp
PAUL HOSTOVSKY : 120POEMQ2
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PAUL HOSTOVSkY's Unlikely Loves
Blues Harp
More like a cross between a saxophone and a five-alarm fire than a Hohner harmonica small enough to fit in the palm of her hand or breast pocket. He was thinking the fact that she even had breasts was almost completely beside the point. Almost. For he had never heard anyone, much less a woman, play harp like that. It was powerful, intelligent, sexy, downright athletic the way she ran her tongue up and down it, breathing hard into the bullet mike, Chicago-style, trading licks with the rhythm guitarist center-stage, bending the notes into shapes that conjured up for him the beautiful catastrophes of train wrecks. He wanted to get her alone after the set, out behind the club, and in the darkness whip out his own harmonica, play a long train with her, show her his rhythms by starting out slow, then building speed underneath her while she whistled and steamed and moaned on top, letting her juggle the high notes like so many birds in the hand, so many waves upon waves, while he chugged along steady and low, running like clockwork, letting her lead, letting her go, letting her, letting her, letting her.
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PAUL HOSTOVSKY
Poem for Michael Jackson
I can't stop thinking about you, Michael Jackson, brother, son, father, sun, burn victim, king. You were richer than God, and lonelier. We had a lot in common, you and I. We were both born in 1958, and around the time of your death I was contemplating my own euthanasia, having gotten the cancer diagnosis a few months before. I wear a white cotton glove when my hand eczema acts up. And I have done the moonwalk, or tried, in my socks on my kitchen floor. I have looked at children and found them beautiful, not sexy beautiful or movie-star beautiful, but I've-loved-you-ever-since-you-were-born-and-probably-longer-than-that beautiful; and have wanted, needed, to be near them. Your music was playing on the radio in radiation oncology, and the nurses were talking about you behind my back as I lay face-down on the table, my butt hanging out, waiting for them to line up the machine and zap me with the healing poison. It felt a lot like your life, as I imagined it, the sublime rhythm of the music competing for air with all the sniggering, gossiping, excoriating voices buzzing around your head. The nurses said the cruelest things about you while you were singing about love in a child's voice, just one day after your death. And I wanted to say something to them, something in defense of you, something in praise of you, something in memoriam. So I jumped up off the table with my johnny flapping around in the dead air of that dead room full of news of your death, and my death, and I moonwalked as best I could with my family jewels flopping up and down in front of their dropped jaws and popping pathological eyes, right out the door of radiation oncology, singing with you, dancing with you, standing with you, Michael Jackson
POETRYREPAIRS 11.10: 120
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato




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POETRYREPAIRS 11.10: 120
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Blues Harp TOP  Blues Harp   PAUL HOSTOVSkY's Unlikely Loves  .comment1
120POEMQ2 MID   Poem for Michael Jackson   PAUL HOSTOVSKY,  .comment2
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