Damn Good Job

James Brown went to Africa

and then there was Afrobeat.

In Afrobeat

you need to play one thing

for a very long time.

When I was in a painting class, the teacher said

to start the year on "the good foot"

and this was in reference to a James Brown song.

Considering

that he travelled the world

and is referenced even in "fine art" classes

shows the breadth 

of his influence— 

I'd have to say, 

damn good job.

May wild birds fly into the night

and may your groove always be strong

and guide you 

into the heart 

of life.

Rooster

This is how the bird comes home to roost.

I'm listening to Blues music on a Wednesday morning,

thinking about the past ten years.

Black Ford (You Can Have Any Color as Long as it is Black)

There are addictions you can afford, and those you cannot.

There are drums where the hide is stretched in such a way as when it's hit it makes a sound.

There's a piano tuner out there somewhere.

Did you get his number?

Parched

The sound of water rushing in a stream

and the wheels of far away cars screeeeeeching on the sidewalk

as they knock over garbage cans

such was your entry into my life

such was it that planets collided.

My teeth now chatter in the cold

the oven is off and the bones are bleached

my hands are twisting and turning

to make the bathtub faucet 

stop leaking

and I am sleeping on the dry earth.

Offer me a glass of water?

Cool to the touch, chilled with ice

the glass sweating.

Strength

Be careful who you think is handsome, take my advice. 

Fame is a razor's edge and it doesn't cut twice.

The line of his jaw that you saw will burn like electricity through your mind for all time. 

Pride and yearning go learning.

It's all old school.

Crazed eyes of the homeless, crack and tipped back heads

Sleeping on the benches and playing cards

Hope has been wrecked

the strongest man in the world

can't swing an anchor around his head.

Household Drumming

The clock on the wall is old school, not digital. It clacks in a click-clack way, every other click is slightly different than the previous one, and different than the one that follows. The bathtub also drips. It drips slightly faster, maybe about 2.7 drips per second. When these two sounds overlap, when I am laying down to sleep, I catch moments where they intersect.

We Found Joy in the Music

We found second hand smoke in the SPAM

We found sycophants in the master plan

but we found joy in the jam

we found joy in the jam...

Jazzed Out

      I think I'm getting jazzed out, from too much jazz coming in. I'm slim sleazed and jazz fizzed, jazzy tizzy ruck rhumba and a side of salt. I am rip roaring, free falling, tipping over, and it's all my fault. I took the job at the jazz club, thinking it'd be some extra cash and now all I hear is tipped over sea shells. 

Yet the ocean, is so beautiful, all of its waves. Its underwater caves. Its caverns and its dancing froth.

How can I miss it, how can it be gone? You can never lose what belongs to you - paraphrasing a song by Abby Lincoln.

The memories of songs is all I have now. It's almost like the music is gone, even when it's happening right in front of you, jazz music seems to be the art of making music feel like a memory.

At least that is how it seems to me.

Quarters in the Laundry Room

I am counting quarters, 6, 7, 8

unless I have $2 I will have to wait.

I do, I'm good and all is well

and all of them are shiny bright.

I have some that are colorful, dark and distressed,

from years so covered up you have to guess

I call these my "alchemy" quarters and I 

am bummed when I need to use them for wash

as they are so beautiful

so much variety

so strange to think 

of all that the quarters have been through

...to rub and leak against chemicals

and reactions to the air

where have these quarters been?

Gaseous fumes on other planets?

In the soil on Mars?

In the souls of the devils

underneath the counter at some 

Country Western Bar

have they been on floorboards

or floating in raw sewage

in the pockets of politicians

or the grubby hands 

of a homeless woman

counting stars

Where have they been?

I just hold on to them sometimes.

Admiring their dark purples, blacks and greens, sepias and rusted reds.

Hangers in the Coatroom

In the coatroom, sometimes the hangers make shadows and it looks quite artistic. Sometimes a vinyl raincoat hanging catches a light in a certain way that makes it look like rubber. And oh, the perfumes and the colognes, rich robust orange lemon cotton candy floral hearth. Oh the furs, oh the vintage numbers. I could just hug them all and fall into them, imagining what it's like to go out on the town. I stand and get the coats at the end of the night, and smile. I try to keep my mouth closed when I smile. I don't know why but I think that's more polite. I realized after awhile that the tips that go into my little brass cup aren't really about my value, they are a way of people showing that they value their coat. It's all very complex, yet so simple. Sometimes my hands run longingly on the soft fabrics as I hang them on the hangers. When the hangers are empty again, at the end of the night, that's when the hangers cast the shadows. It's not dull nor dreary actually, it's quite evocative and ready for a MOMA exhibit. Hangers, in the coatroom.

Storytelling

The griots and the girlish ghouls feigning stardust on the rule of law. Libel can't touch the smile. Inches, meters, cubic yards, measuring her beauty in scars. The characters inhabit souls, masks are just the outer shell. The length the storyteller will go, there's miles between our hearts, then the distance suddenly collapses. Cue the choir. Remove the mask! The dawn is coming and we must go about our business.