Let's talk about this jazz club
that lives in my cellphone
in 1950 something with Chet Baker
back from the dead.
Let's toast to random notes taking flight
into the city in the middle of nothing nights we've known or been familiar with.
Let's shake hands cordially with the unfamiliar as in "deal", or "peace be with you" as if in church, tipping hats at that stranger passing by at the crosswalk some late evening in spring alongside dandelions sprouting forth from the pavement. Let's read between breaks of beats Kerouac must have hit in 1950 something San Francisco in yelps into the moonlit stages of the balcony of his boxcar boxcar boxcar gone by in a mad blur with whatever graffiti'd message of hope it bore on its sides. Let's hitch into the unknowingly infinite by way of the pen's mighty point. Let's unlearn the way syllable by syllable and demolish languaged signs like hurricane force candor blowing down fact-ory made terms and political decorum as smoke from the pages of their corporate handbook joins the Chet Baker solo note pilgrmage into the holy skyline. Let's move side by side unspoken as those jazz notes he forgot to play. Let's fill in those blanks with uninformed confidence beyond our abilities and grasp the unsayable names of our dreams remmebered. Let's see in seconds passing like bums inebriated with the holy moments gone too soon. Let's talk about nothing but this sacred second at hand on this clock unseen pointing overhead to the face of the moon gone full and hungry for attention. Let this happen only now. Only then will we talk about where it's going.

today i feel like velvet.
forest green velvet, to be exact.
today i flow like a waterfall of jazz notes,
a crescendo over a tuxedo piano.
my soul feels soft;
slinky, too,
like it could melt with anyone and
create something beautiful.
today i taste like salt,
mostly because tears are sliding down the back of my throat
and my eyes are the Dead Sea
and oh god, you actually thought i was sugar, didn't you?
today i am a nightmare,
robed in a lacy white dress and stuck under a peach sky.
i'm sure you'll tell me i look beautiful.
would you say the same if you knew i wrote about you?
today i am the ink of a ballpoint pen...
i'm sure you know what it's like to doodle calligraphy
on the corner of your math homework when suddenly
and ink blot appears
where the last letter of my name should be.
well, that's me.
everything is perfect--
until it's not.
today i am beautiful trauma.
try to hold me down.
i dare you.

you are all infinite
you, my children of the night
pagan wanderers on destinies lips
patrons of the streets, lonely, empty, wanting
I seen a generation fall
I seen a generation crumble
and be reborn.
You my midnight sorcerers on deaths hitlist
listless and searching
I seen the dance of a power divide
Ego denied, angry id, broken steps
steps
steps
steps
we walk steps in the open,
we talked talks of confession to the night
it held us, comforted us
We the unwanted zombies
of unheard promises and dysfunctional rational
you are all beautiful
undaunted by the lines
the crooked lines, cut mishapen, disater mishappen
Cheers to my world, my surrounding reality
scared and scarred by tomorrow
tomorrow
tomorrow
tomorrow
My vagabond lies, my homeless truths
You, my enormous, analytical algorythms of disobedience
of disorder, of chaos
Musicians playing perpetual reqiuems
Jazz of the dead, jazz of the wanderer, jazz of the beautiful
Show your hand, yell your claim
stake your play.
concrete mazes, blinding buildings, urban solitute
I have found you, I have seen you,
you poets of denial, poets of disaster
Prose of temptation
Words of lament
Speak to me my children of the perpetual night
My children of music, of poetry, of paintings telling me the broken down minds, the sacrificed
economy of love
I am lost in these streets
I am at home in the unknown
I am nothing but a dream, denied
We are together
all together, here, here and now
Lost together
Crowded solitude
Lets be solidified as one
You, my children are emptied of being full
full of unknown, full of yourselves and filled with *****
Drunken stories of lullabies lost
Pour me another, make it a double. doubled down truth
hit me
Cigarette stained finger tips
Plucked tense strings,
Strings so tense you could feel their vibration
We sit, listening, ears pointed at God,
Waiting to be lulled into compliance
I have seen your cigarette stained
Finger tips
Pluck strings of lament and prophecy
Sing me into your future
Oh beautiful melody
Oh wandering progressions
Telling tales of my transgressions
Oh trusty chords
Lovers speak only lies,
With cigarette gently sleeping between exhausted lips
Let us lie here
Here in this desolate desert moonscape
Forlorn homeless shelter
New antiqued flashood of home
I have seen us staring
Staring into the void,
Into the fullness of emptiness
These are not just dreams
Fevered and sweating out the ingested fungus
They are the dystopian dreams of
Every young adult novel
Of every science fiction, battered, back pocket edition
Dog eared, notes in the margins, yellowed with love, book.
They are the lost bibles of us,
Of our current histories and our future stories.
My friends
Gathered, exuberant, broken and shattered
Passing time on the the stools of inebriation
Come forth and be counted
The artist hang burnt offering from crimson skies
Sacrifices of the soul
Sacrifices of humanity
Exercises of humility
Stand here before me and and be chastised
A public flogging, a private shaming
A social satired informal gathering
Gaining peer reviewed synthetically blended praise
The dab hazed hipsters
Losing time,
faking time,
Cutting lines, sparking fires inside
Burn
Burn
Burn
Lose me in the iridescent, fill me in with acrylic
Wash me out with acid and cry-
Cry over me, cry with me
I am nothing, and we are everything.

White leaves rustle
in autumn
To a swinging beat,
marked with ink –

Staff lines,
and sharps
that fall
flat.

Synchronised
To the wave
of a maestro’s
hands.

Camaraderie.
But no words are needed.

A fervent look
From the drummer
Gives away the tempo,
Speed up!

A rehearsed nod
starts an improvised solo
in another mode.
Mixolydian.

We exist on the same
wavelength;
you and I.

Morning mood was bleak
Spiced with some Jazz, a poached egg and Appreciation.

Noon was carnival!
BBQ on the dock sprinkled with tropical house and a heavy dose of ***.

Night was narcissism
Sinful Bourbon and banana desserts, cigarettes aplenty, blue lights and bad habits

Jazz,
Only element that can get us through and bring us all together
The sound of the trumpet and trombone.
Even through the toughest time,
We all come together
And forget our rough day.

Maybe,
Tomorrow we can be seen like the others,
Not being watched over and having all eyes on us.

The police officer and that dog always are around.
Can we not have a night without them?
Sorry we are all different yet still the same.