He pulled her in with music,
fishing for her eyes to focus
on lines he extended.
She fingered pearls about her
neck, turning them over like
wet thoughts of the man
Black ties and buttons hold
shirts in place. Cuff links
with initials fawn for attention.
Hat pins point into the mystery
of thick hair. A high heel shoe
slips its covering, exposing a
waiting weakness. Earrings sway,
making hips jealous.
The music creates a pool of
captured souls feeding on the
passion of jazz.
THE WHAT OF THE THING
Wide circles of night moved on the
street. Car lights jacked bright
walking people, snapping fingers to music;
a free flowing stream of sound ran
over ankles outside the club.
Smoky fumes pulled the curious to the
door of jazz and the junk of dark notes;
words from broken winged angels
pushed up a feast.
Sharp edges round out under warm clouds
moving into people, standing, whispering,
twisting hair ends, pulling at their needs,
lifting out freedom from behind fences;
the long of what was missing.
The what of the thing has now been found.
She spoke little of the language
I called home.
Looking down, her eyes consumed
the arms of my swimming.
Circling, I waited for her rescue;
her arms removed the day,
ending in the cooling of her hand.
Fingers with red polish snapped to
the jazz draining from the club;
its doors lay open, releasing the
jam of practicing sugar, the sweetness
Her hair swayed with ocean rhythm,
capturing the flow of me;
washing me in the vision of her tides.
She whispered heavily, “breezin on”
and smiled, pulling my soul strings.
I nodded while tumbling, wanting to
be the air of her words.
I stood, motioning her to the open doors.
He tastes the words of soul.
Thick motion streams,
waves of sound, rejoice at
the making of his jazz;
release settles under
strong currents of his making.
He looks up at rushing water.
Air and hands
feed his direction.
His sights fill the baskets
of memory in
Pockets of wrinkled suits.
A hat, the altar of his crown,
tips in school boy anger.
The appetite of music feeds
the lust of his learning;
he battles to save his paths.
Gray hair curls over the
top of his ears.
His hands are a workshop,
from the ashes of today.
One step, two,
the march of funeral feet
slaps leather to pavement
and jazz for the dead.
….blow mighty the horn of Gabriel.
Tambourines snap under white
parasols and spotless suits;
angels watch in jealous pain.
…the band lifts spirits beyond the grave.
Black hands and red fingernails
hold fever tight handkerchiefs,
waving parade air
to living and dead.
….songs never leave spirit ears