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.





                                                                                              Peter Fernbach