Michael Perkins

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Embouchure

I want a man who can blow a trumpet,
a chet-baker-square-jaw-jazz-man, a man
who understands embouchure, who knows
what to do with his lips and tongue, who
knows what to do—and what not to do—
with his teeth. I want a man who knows
how to breathe, a long slow exhale, past
himself and through you, into you. I want
a man who can make a brass horn sing,
scream a little, scream loud sometimes,
a melody, a harmony, a whispered prayer.
I want a horn man, a brass man, a trumpet
player, a man who knows how to blow,
how to make his lips buzz, how to double
tongue. I want a man who will make love
to music he makes up himself, who’ll make
me want to respond, react, breathe back,
sway my hips in bed. I want a man who
will make me feel like I’m an integral part
of an orchestra, or make me feel like an
intimate part of a jazz ensemble, or make
me feel like the mouth of a river, a tributary,
the current that carried Moses, that made
him a king, a hero, a savior, a man.

--Paula J. Lambert

The Master soars past the sun and moon,
tucks the universe under her arm,
and is one with the ten thousand things.
She lets the confused stay confused
if that is what they want
and is always available
to those with a passion for the truth.
In the welter of opinions,
she is content with not-knowing.
She makes distinctions
but doesn't take them seriously.
She sees the world constantly breaking
apart, and stays centered in the whole.
She sees the world endlessly changing
and never wants it to be
different from what it is.

-- Chuang-tzu

Rinzai's disciples never got the Zen message,
But I, the Blind Donkey, know the truth:
Love play can make you immortal.
The autumn breeze of a single night of love is
better than a hundred thousand years
of sterile sitting meditation ...

 - Ikkyu