CRAIG MOORE
Photo @ M. Boleyn 1983
Bob Kaufman, basement of City Lights 1983
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Night of Saxophones (1)
for Bobby Kaufman
His name was carved outside
in the cement, permanent eighty-six
he appeared out of nowhere
I knew his old Beat friend, Harry
poet of poets, Bobby black Rimbaud
his disappearing words, appeared
out of thin air their nuance talked
that way of talking, without saying
anything, he gesticulated the essence
that said so much more then the words
themselves, their silent resonance
floated on the thick air, said so much more
and hung their voodoo like jazz glyphs
on black night, the smoky atmosphere
of his tricky transcendence, his Buddha eye
Harry Monroe and Bob Kaufman kicked the gong
around, downed a lot of vermouth torpedoes
Bob did a sort of drunken war dance hop
like part ghost dance part bebop shuffle
I swear he winked at me in the jazzy alley
between Vesuvios and City lights, I swear
he spun around and almost fell on the concrete
discreet as was his want to do, and there
he was like a wild black Jewish indian with an
elfin grin, his poet's eyes sparkling and
laughing at some mysterious joke, I swear he
seemed to vanish and reappear in his tipsy jig
I use to see him bopping down by Broadway dig?
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