The sexiest instrument on the planet
besides the one in your pants, of course,
is the saxophone.
Before you can even think of playing
you have to lick it
make sure that reed is good and wet
suffused with moisture
until it’s straining against the clasps.
And then you blow
not your load
and not like you’re putting out a fire
not like your life depends on it
but gently, tenderly,
just enough to tickle
to cause a little tremble
and start a little treble.
The bars on the page
they’re breaking apart when you get going,
and the music is no long defined –
unlocked though you ignored the key.
Rhythm? Who the fuck needs that?
Now it’s down to syncopation and feeling
using your fingers to see the way
like Saul did when he changed his name to Paul
on his way to glory
though he may disagree with how intimate you are with that sax.
But who’s he to say what sexy is and will be
forever and ever?
And when you finish with the notes, exhausted
you hit the valve, let the fluid drop the ground.
Playing that thing, it’s music making love to you.
That’s glory, whether he likes it or not.
Hee hee. Fair reader, I'm going to let you form a mental picture of the poetry transaction occurring here, given the title of the poem and the fact that Paul's custom words were "music," "sexy," and "Paul." So begins our boy's week-long summer job as a poetry gigolo.