BLOW THAT SOUND

Blow horn man,
Blow the dark
Out of night
With wicked blasts
Scarring the silence
Into running.

Blow hard
Knocking down
The bones
Of stand up music
Into rattling
Corner dice.

Blow long
That solid note
Piercing sharp
Like a knife
Cutting deep
Opening the jazz.

IT AINT STOPPING

There’s
Not enough
Cold water
In all the
Buckets to
Simmer out
The fire of
Jazz
Burning hot
On my fingers
Crawling
The ladder
Of strings
On my bass
And sliding
With squeaks
Like mice
Deep in
Fresh cheese
As the sounds
Run with
Jumpy notes
Like feisty cats
Slipping
Clean on
Greased poles
Where nothing
Can stop
The sounds
From breaking
Into your
Head.

THE PATH OF NOTES

From the second
Floor balcony
Rolling tight
On evening air
A horn slaps
Dusk to night.

The fade of
High sunlight
Beckons the man
Onto steel steps
Where stars lick
Black the sky.

A sound
Bought with pain
Breathes jazz
Into windows,
Down hallways,
Dripping to the alley.

Out onto distant
Welcome corners
Flat with dirt,
The notes wing
Till out of steam
Then plant and grow.

FUNERAL JAZZ

Uprising river
Muddy thick
Twisting brown
With a coat
Thick of silt
Slow humming
Roaring deep
Like marching
Funerals full of
Broken sobs
Love choked
Till the music
Creeps in streets
Turning hearts
Over cobbled
Walking roads
Where drums
Beat like fire
Raising horns
In streaks of
Madness as
Cymbals sizzle
Winging out jazz
Fastly hot
Covering ears
Molasses dark
Over and under
Near dat river
Where mud
Melts into
Ocean arms.