i bike down the street, contemplating jazz
i bike down the street wondering
why wasn’t life always like this?
why can’t the world be this soft black and white
where the piano man is king
and the trumpet is the sun
emanating a value scale of exuberant grays
where are the happy families?
in the blind spot.
we’re in the clubs and undergrounds rooms,
fevering for you miles davis
in the coffee shop
with lights off
drinking cold espresso.
watching our ghosts fall through the floors.
when you have spend such time with the trumpet,
it starts to love you back
just you wait.
the drummer lives in his metronome
stares into the shadow world at his feet
the drummer lives in his own algorithms, chained to a loop
the trumpeter works the machine of brass and wind.
the tattooed monks chant and the piano roars
and the drums are always
boom – boom – boom
like the streets of detroit.
how do you teach your fingers…
to move like that; where is the education
or show me the addiction.
the text is a heartbeat
but what beats your heart is the trombone
sultry it slides and roams and moans,and changes
the tone in the room. and everyone stops, sucked into silence
by the outpour. kill all electric instruments.