September 24, 2010

Big Tent Haibun

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.

5 comments:

caroleesherwood said...

i like the sense of wandering you convey in this. very relaxed.

Tumblewords: said...

Change. Often, constant and filled with memory. Very nice piece!

James said...

This reads the way jazz can sound in a club. Nice work.

BIRD said...

JAZZ BIRD RIFTS SOUND TAKEN FROM ETHER.

BLAZE

THE UPPER REGIONS OF SPACE: HEAVEN

IGNITE UNWORLDLY SPIRITUAL

RAREFIED POET GO ON

Mr. Walker said...

I like the idea that even forgotten names are part of the music.