Marching On

This is about fools and heroes, and the frail human plight. It’s about failed ecology, and worldwide plague. It’s about love, hate, death, and brash 2nd lines. About MUSIC, murder, mayhem, and ego’s absurdity. Oh yeah – and it’s about Mardi Gras, n’ever-thing in b’tween!


“Marching On” from: Guilbeaux Gallery

 
Do you
see the salt-tears
stain d’brass horn’s bell

feel the hit-bottom bass
of the fine wooden upright

weep with the wound strings
of a hollow-body gibson

ache to d’blues-bent reed
of a lush broke-heart sax

throb with the rhythm
of the skin-taut drum’s roll

I am the blues band
and too the jazz band
also the 2nd line
of celebration and sorrow

I play at the light’s edge
that pools in the night
in a joint on the bleak streets
of the sad brokenhearted

I play to the anguish
of the loveless who cower
in the dark nightmare alleys
of the lost and forgotten

I play to the grief
of the sinners who moan
alone in their heartbreak
in the ruins of love

I play to the ignorance
that fosters indifference
unleashing the pollution
consuming the planet

I play to the horror
that encircles our world
flogged raw by despair
in the shadow of plague

I play to the terror
of all asshole demagogues
harboring sad wet dreams
of being someone’s fool god

I am a blister-hot pistol
on the barroom slat-floor
in a puddle’a justice
that taught a jackass to cry

I am the angel of miz’ry
that falls you flat down
wail’n ‘round midnight
hard pray’n t’die

I am a broke piano
in a dead — drunk-bar
squaller’d in shambles
sheddin’ no’mo tears

I am the dark cadence
movin’ through the streets
in sad slow progression
carryin’ the dead

I am mardi gras mornin’
I come’a roarin’on up
in a bourbon st. stumble
play’n all the night

I am wild tchoupitoulas
from the 13th ward
blood shiffa-hoona
I won’t be barred

I am a walk through fire
a swim through mud
stole feathers from an eagle
a drink’a panther’s blood

I am a gallery of corpse tears
hung bold in deep memory
for those who survived
to feel the departed’s sorrrow

I am the rattle of glasses
on shelves back ‘o d’bar
when the band’s riffin’ hard
on a packed Friday night

I am the madman
sometimes d’sideman
in d’dark beautiful chaos
and joy’s tearful sky

I am the tambourine’s jangle
in a sweet delicate hand
in a hard poundin’ bar
on a stage reekin’ o’weed

I am the music and anguish
pour ‘em into m’soul
‘til I’m only the both
so to wring your pain dry

are ya’ blind
do ya’ see
are ya’ deaf
do ya’ hear

I am jazz
I am blues
I am a lone angel cryin’
in a dearth funeral dirge

I am — all that fuckin’ music
playin’ out loud
play’d for all us dyin’
in earth’s terminal purge


“All That Jazz” from: Guilbeaux Gallery

*
rob kistner © 2022
aka: lawrence tieke

Poetry at: dVerse

Poetry at: The Sunday Muse

Poetry at: Poets & Storytellers

 






52 thoughts on “Marching On”

  1. Twenty poems here ~ at a minimum! Astounding write, Rob! The gallery art piece I want.
    ‘I am — all that fucking music
    played for us dying on a planet near death.’

    Reply

  2. I felt the same lines Helen quotes. Would make a stunning poster! What an amazing poem, Rob. Words from the soul. So well done. This week is definitely pushing all of our grief buttons.

    Reply

    1. Thank you so much my friend! Yes, I definitely wrote this entire piece, including the continued on-the-fly realtime edits, while running a meter and rhythm in my head Carrie. It was fun molding it into the final episodic work.

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    2. You let go and put it al on paper there…and I have seen nearly every line and location with my own eyes, and slept in some too..brilliantly done..

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    1. Thank you so much Bev. “Makin’ believe” is something I learned and honed to the bone my friend, getting through a strange “schizophrenic” chaotic childhood — filled with demons and hero’s, my adoptive father my biggest hero. It formed my creativity into the marrow of my bones — matter of sanity. It was how I learned who I was. I simply refined and expanded it as I grew to manhood. Hell, I didn’t learn that my true birth nsmd was Lawrence Tieke until last year, at age 74 — thanks to my tenacious daughter. It was a journey of discovery I never knew she undertook — but I am glad she did. It closed a huge gap in my spirit. Anyway — Being able to express myself in words, music, and images carried me up through my entire life Bev.

      Reply

  7. Rob, your offering is a stunning manifesto to “all that fucking music.” ADORE IT. The Muses are swirling around it and sparks are flying.

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        1. Pretty good insight Lisa. Images for this piece kept striking like thunderbolts. Each wanted to be part of thd party so no one was refused.

  8. THIS is magnificent… music is so much… just wish that all can hear it instead of turning it off when it hurts that it should hurt.

    Reply

    1. Thank you Bjorn! 🙂 If one’s soul can’t reach to touch music, and let it hurt, make you laugh, make you feel good, make you wanna make love, make you cry, make you feel sexy, make you feel proud, make you dance, make you wanna strut, make you think, or just drift away in dreams and reverie — then one ain’t got no soul… and I am so damned glad I am not that one!

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  9. Man. reading this piece is “an overwhelming experience”. Love me some Blues & Jazz & Divers fucking music! Your background gives you such authenticity, such piercing introspection, such unique articulation. Whether you are waxing sweet over Nature’s wilderness, or sharing the dark underbelly of blues and jazz riffs, you get the crown, the heavyweight belt, the cigar and the Cuppie-doll. I liked “weep with the wound strings of a hollow body gibson” and “ache to dblues bent-reed of a lush broke-heart sax” and “I am a blister-hot pistol on the barroom-slat floor” and on and on.

    Reply

    1. I am glad Merril, because beyond just the obvious band, orchestra, and chorus, all of life and nature is rhythm and music — of the heartbeat, of the blood-flow, of the season changes, of birds and animals calling, of traffic, of a passing train, of the pulse of factories, of the wind in the trees, of laughing, of crying, of voices raised in joy/celebration/sorrow/song, of the hum of any crowd, of the rhythm of rain, of city sounds, of a working farm, of war, of children playing, of the work on a work site, of the night in wilderness, of the day in wilderness, of the tick of the clock, of footsteps, and so much more — it’s all rhythm, it’s all music, even if it’s not all happy. For those who can’t hear it, who miss that elemental reality, you miss a significant aspect and joy of being alive.

      Reply

  11. This is awesome! So much to love here, could pick at the bones of this one all night.

    My favorite line – “I am a blister-hot pistol
    on the barroom slat-floor
    in a puddle’a justice
    that taught a jackass to cry.”

    Man, I wish I’d written that.

    Reply

  12. Oh my heart this is so poignant, Rob! Especially resonate with; “I play at the light’s edge that pools in the night in a joint on the bleak streets of the sad brokenhearted.”

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    1. Thank you Kathy. I am, and have been, into Wait’s music for years. It both stimulates my creativity, and puts me into a type of emotional vertigo. Both states fascinate me, and always makes me think.

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  17. Feeling it and love the passion you poured out on the page. I lived in New Orleans for a while at the Naval Air Station (right before Katrina hit) and I have very fond memories. It’s a town like no other and I grew to truly love the music. This brought me back!

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  18. Music, at times, has been my savior, my god and my religion. Your piece made me FEEL everything that you touched on in this marvelous compilation. I can’t imagine what it must have felt like for you to channel it all and put it on paper. It’s just filled with images of humanity in all its varied personas…the good, the bad and the ugly. And Tom Waits…oooh, baby! Excellent!

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  19. Play on! This a cacophony (in the best sense, like what inspires composers to write music that breaks through), a virtuoso performance that only a maestro can accomplish because every bit of their blood and soul has been poured into it.

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  20. Brilliant!
    marching on and on thought life…
    perhaps the same road, but for sure a different scenery every few steps.
    Should have had my guitar within reach…

    Reply

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