Bathysphere

Down through the chaotic frenzy of the shallows,

past the congested coral maps,

through darting quicksilver traffic, through the matted net of sea grass,

this is where the music drags you:

under

using 
composition as a cacophonous anchor, 
a chunk of discord sinking like an iron lung through the murk,

trailing a necklace of tiny glass beads behind it

as it plunges down 
through pages of algae, 
down through miles of blue glass turning gradually black.

A mushroom cloud of silt puffs up
when you touch bottom, not that you can see it
-you only feel it whisper against your cheek,

a billowing hem of silky dust, followed by 
a slap and a thump.The lights blink on, 
the underwater nightclub lit by

toothy, illuminated ghouls that float 
like paper lanterns through the murk.

In the glow cast from their luminescent bellies, 
you can see, not the Titanic's band
but a jazz quartet of sub-aquatic maniacs.
Witness the bass, tilted like the hull 
of a sunken ship, with fingers crabwalking

up and down the mast; the twin saxophones,

encrusted with barnacles, their diving bell cavities 
creaking and honking with underwater pentatonics 

to summon a herd of crustaceans 
that thunder across the ocean floor,

rattling their armor and lashing their antennae wildly about.

Your ears grows accustomed to the pressure of the deep,

picking up faint screams of feedback echoing off a distant reef, 
a tape loop bellowing from the blow hole of a leviathan 
rumbling past on the rainy avenue upstairs.

The drums bang tsunami numbers, mocking the rumble and rush of the tide,

followed by a long moment of the abyss’s crushing silence
before rattling and banging like an endless avalanche.

Strange papery creatures pulse and flutter to the improvisation,

but finally become so sluggish and dense they can barely move.

A gaping mouth in the rock hisses,

snoring in its sleep, belching bubbles of gas.

Its lips are rimmed with wormy hairs, undulating gently,

the sea floor populated with sucking tribes of polyps that feed

on your improvised dreams 
well after the music has faded 

and the divers have returned their instruments

to those ominous black cases, giving a tug on the line,

hauling everything back up to a trawler on the surface.

Emerge slowly; take some time to acclimate, 
to prevent yourself from getting the bends

as you ascend the stairs and step out into the night, 
accompanied by the clamor of car horns and crowds 
which, now that you hear it, actually sounds
a lot like music. 

(Written at the Blue Monk during a Sunday night performance 
by the free jazz quartet Battle Hymns & Gardens, 3/04/12)