B.Z. Niditch- Two Poems

AT THIS VERY HOUR

Counting down the scales
from my musical eyes
in walled drowsy half light
of interrupted press call moments
by a herculean listening
to my pastime memory
a critic from the big city
who advertises only for himself
still tries to blind my still life
by a turn around remark
behind my back
yet says he has my back
near my murmuring body,
as my lips know my sax's ways
I can spot a poisoned mouth
but I try to ignore him
as any cop on the road
trailing my motorcycle
absorbed by my first breath
smarting from an amazed intro
from the warm up act
of folk singers on before me
remaining in a state
of impeding cool improvisation
into riffs of visited verse
letting loose unknown powers
of whispered melodies
by the floodlights.



LONELINESS

Receiving my own loneliness
in a poster of James Dean
hidden from the green walls
of my sound proof room
where in imperfect solitude
light vanishes
outside the street traffic
sounding my alto sax notes
at a justified angled voice
of erupting riffs
to all of us with a need
of biting our lips into music
stammering at face to face
fears we seldom reveal
even to ourselves,
against the halfway emptiness
of our skeletal conclusions
we musicians escape reality
through stage doors,
windows ,closets, gigs
dressing rooms, one nightstands,
life is discharged
with heavy sweated breath
uncovering our body and souls
time quickly becomes foreign
to our bones.