R.I.P. Bill Dixon.

Summer always seems to take away the elderly and this one decided it wanted Bill Dixon. I can't think of much more beyond that right now.


Let this space be his and more will come as we who were touched by him gather our thoughts.


Let's begin with Stanley. And Stephen who adds,"Visit Bill's facebook page for photos and remembrances. Leave comments, please."


 Stef shines as does Derek Taylor and Mr. Kelsey was out of the gate early in the old blogroll. Ben Young, as ever, more than does his part as does Mr. Bynum.


And Mr. Dalachinsky made a work last night.


JOY SPRING (riffin on Clifford)-         
for Bill Dixon


 1.
the moon makes its own music
tonite
somewhere
music that seeks to constantly
interrupt itself
a piece of something already a part
of some thing
a grain of flavor
fading into grainless nerve endings
fractious parcels
sailing through the window
there
a view / a circumference
a broken piece of
volume
in the magazine fill the bucket
here
a rebel walk
i give to you  / you give to me
whatever you give to me
tune yer ears
bowpie –ring oh the seem real
blue pink rose
this new street we’ll call it
EXTRA PLACE.

2.
nite displays itself like a slain lover
whose bench was once a tree
slain lover cries / exclaims
I YEARN FOR BEAUTIFUL LANDSCAPES
there beneath the awning

yawning light
water falls  -  grapes
crush in the stomach
wine is born
i’m not sure where i am or
for how long  (i’ll love you)
some rain in the once empty chambers
of my bowels
all weird & strictly romantic.
3.
i’m a lucky guy
& can tenderly dream of
sunset eyes
knowing nothing about books or
prayers   negative values
the symmetry of youth
desired placement
optimum opacity & ghost images

i am in the middle of a straight line
puttering  away
exposed to the dark rocks
bright metal
dark trees
against an overcast sky
& the white-against-black mood
of the music
blind to color yet able to visualize
history’s vanishing letters while
        beholding agitation.

4.
the man from the forest
weaves
a clock of hammers
eggs tick the promise of how-good-it-re
ally-is aways
bell/wind of whispered flutters
echoessssssss plurallllls
a sense of patches
grand mar rocks the steepness
& you lie there
old & young / thinkers in a story of…
enjoyin yerselves
devoted to the limitations of the scale
& how to triumphantly overturn
IT.


dalachinsky   6/17/10