Leaving my apartment to walk the dark sidewalk of Second St., the stars would be at my feet, the crushed wine bottles & other dust of the East Village. It was 1975 & my destination was the Tin Palace on Bowery & Second St., my neighborhood bar. On weekends jazz musicians, famous & otherwise, would play there with a cover. During the week there was usually a trio, often Jim Roberts, playing for me & the bartender. Sometimes I would show up with a date, & often not the same one as the last time. I think of the sounds of jazz, our conversations, even the sounds we made in bed, reverberating through space, even now.
the constellations await our music:
saxophone sighs, lost whispers
even the forgotten names.