Class as Scat Jazz
On stage I’m not unlike a Jon Scofeild
With nothing but a silly putty Les Paul and a chord chart.
There are infinite dimensions, parallel universes of possibility.
My ability as an artist is measured
By how well I can up and go with the spontaneous interchange
And manifest the myriad worlds that reside in you.
Let’s make meaning together, it’s been tugging
At my sleeve all day, and I was sure I caught it
Out of the corner of my eye as I drove down
Elmwood, on the way to work
Or was it last night at the bar
I finally caught up with my old friend meaning again?
Forget the theory –
Theory will come later, after hereandnow meaning.
Theory will come long after the hot moment
Where meaning always lives.
Theory will come in a breezy, dimly-lit office
Where I, chair-bound, throw the memory of meaning
Into a theoretical vice, built by the company of Vygotsky, Dewey
Freire, Foucault, Fulkerson, et al, and wrench meaning
Still warm, from the things we did in class as scat jazz.