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.
i like the sense of wandering you convey in this. very relaxed.
ReplyDeleteChange. Often, constant and filled with memory. Very nice piece!
ReplyDeleteThis reads the way jazz can sound in a club. Nice work.
ReplyDeleteJAZZ BIRD RIFTS SOUND TAKEN FROM ETHER.
ReplyDeleteBLAZE
THE UPPER REGIONS OF SPACE: HEAVEN
IGNITE UNWORLDLY SPIRITUAL
RAREFIED POET GO ON
I like the idea that even forgotten names are part of the music.
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