WOW

Published in an edition of 350 copies, this collection contains many previously unpublished poems.

These poems deal with jazz, poetry, the Beat Generation, travels in Africa, art, and life. Various poems mention or are dedicated to Miles Davis, Albert Ayler, Cecil Taylor, Charlie "Bird" Parker, Etienne Lero, Wifredo Lam, Michel Leiris, Picasso, and others.

Includes four drawings of Ted Joans by the artist Laura Corsiglia. Sixty pages stapled in illustrated cardstock covers.

Some Poems from WOW

Here are a few poems from the book, WOW.

ABOVE HIM

I saw Senghor
I was above him
Not hovering
Like a cloud
or a helicopter
but just a
High-lofty-observing
Poet
Looking down
At Senghor the poet
Who hovers high
Like a cloud
or a heavenly
helicopter
filled with leaflets
that shame butterflies’ wings
And rainbows end
I saw Senghor
the poet
Dressed in contradiction

DON’T LET THE MINUTE SPOIL THE HOUR

for the little white poem, the big painting blue, and the swinging
music in hot red
SHE WAS HIS MUSE…YET REFUSED HIS HUMBLE BED
for a jug of wine (black), a few slices of cheese (yellow), and
a long lovely loaf of brown bread
for that she gave him money…BUT STILL REFUSED HIS BED!
for faraway trips, or making snobbish social scenes, or even
in the parks holding hands (while pigeons were fed)
SHE SAID SHE DUG HIM (to hear it bugged him) ’cause she
STILL REFUSED HIS BED!
NOW HE DON’T PAINT, NOR WRITE A POEM, NOR PLAY HIS
SWINGING MUSIC IN HOT RED
BECAUSE HE IS A B E A T N I K
AND THUS THE lovesick   ARTIST   IS   DEAD!

OKAY, YOU ARE AFRAID OF AFRICA
…to those who live by their enslaving sword

Okay, you are afraid of Africa!
you with the long dark overcoat
   ”   with the wide trouser cuffs
   ”   with the Moscow autumn wind
   ”   with the DC cracker grin
   ”   with the rag waving pride
   ”   with a cougar’s drop of dung
   ”   with a thimble’s innocence near dawn
   ”   with a plaid tablecloth’s obscenities
   ”   with a lost mustache of wax
   ”   with a column of Louvre trembling
   ”   with a flabby belly of British beer
   ”   with the blood of two kings on your boots
one living     one dead
intensifying the fear you fear
the guilt you grow from year to year