I've imagined a romance plagued by jazz.

Ella sings in my head, as i
fall in love.

Billy tells me your secret wishes, as we
dance around a christmas tree that barely fit in my ****** apartment.

Louis sings you to sleep
Whenever I never got to say goodnight.

Jazz is not a flavor
It's a way of life
Spill it , drink it , love it , serve it
Just don't funk it......

[Ambiance: the atmosphere of an environment; a surrounding influence]

The smoke drifts over the audience,
the piano, the throaty singer and the sax
permeate the room with a jazzy ambiance.
My nerves vanish in the vibe, and I relax.

I enter the parlor to a flower-scent rush
there’s solemn gloom in the room for the viewing
I hear sniffles and mourners speak in a hush,
the ambiance here shaded with blueing.

The senses soak up the atmosphere.
Smells, sounds, touches, and sights
on the outside penetrate like a spear
take us down or ****** us to the heights.

Every day every inch of the way
is a new journey.  I can choose my stance,
embrace the unexpected and pray
for openness and grace in my internal ambiance.

“Internal Ambiance,” Copyright © 2017 by Glenn Currier

It was a normal day-
I went for a coffee at the Jazz Café.

And out through the soaked windows
I saw a malign, wanton city
Vehicles perishing the streets
Pouring their sooty fumes into the
Gaping mouth of the crowds.

I took a sip of the cappuccino-
The sweet bitterness;
Casted me back to those long
Winter months (wasted) -
I spent mourning about you.

I would shroud my room in black
Drink, drink, drink until-
All hues of blue
Would drown me in the Ocean of Woe.

Then Chet Baker mellowed the room:
'Some blues are sad, but some are glad, dark and sad.'

I felt as if I was suffocating.
There was something eerie about that jazz.

So I walked out-  of the light.
Let the rain rinse my sins, dance
Like a flapper: complacent, rebellious, dangerous,

puff away my eclipsed universe.
My blues were more than a cold colour:

'They're a moan of pain, a taste of strife and a sad refrain.'

The last time I felt like this I
was a high school freshman
trying out this new word as if I'd
just heard it.
My mind escapes reality on its own accord
and returns to moments where
your summer brown eyes made
my chocolate brown eyes melt.
The image of your neck gently curving
to listen to music replays in my head
like an old jazz tune,
like I'm a chord holding out for resolution.
I sway in memories of watching
your reflection in the upright piano,
eyeing your hands gliding across
the familiar fretboard,
as I played alongside you.
I am bound to your smile.

I wonder if you've ever had a
love poem written for you?
I wonder if you even think about me?
I wonder if you even know
you inspire me.

I travel trough the heavy rain
I sit lonesome on a lonely train
I play blues
These days are grey,  these nights  are blue
my mind keeps coming back to you
I play the blues

I travel with desire
Past houses lit on fire
I play jazz
Windows lit by sundown
My train-seat old and rundown
I play jazz

Rainbow roads in colored blurr
Pretty little towns I'm sure
I play swing
Past mirror waves and open sky
My stomach tingles, wonder why I
Play swing

***** feet on ***** train
Skin so white I see my veins
I play punk
Impatient taps and flickering lights
Soon the day will turn to night
I play punk

Head in the clouds, mind at ease
Longing for the morning breeze
I play Pink Floyd
Memories hanging from branches
Passengers sharing brief glances
I play Pink Floyd

I'm coming home, I'm on my way, but I travel still...
I travel not by force... yet not by will
Music of choise as soundtrack to the silent film
beyond the windowsill

A ride today in Des Moines
that appraise law and counteract
any that country may enact
where Wichita lineman forthwith

and mackinaw shall really embellish
furthermore with Granny Smith
awhile down stream on a riverboat
that foregoing is never behind

where a river is always wide
and bourgeois with a paddle wheel stride
why his atropine smile
reach the delta with such desire
and let him take the home route

in an abode of parish shanty
where river dance makes day long  
a simple beast, a man

with chinchilla wrap round his neck
that sweep her off flourishing deck
these stratospheric ideals now  
for sovereign witness entail campaign.

beautiful blues those saxophone hues
ruined by electronic cigarettes

A clothes hanger
                   clutches a line
                   of paper lanterns
                                     lighting my next step
                                     on streets my shoes stick to
                                               from wheat beer
I hear the ‘Pit'                      coursing through cracks  
                    &                        inebriating aged clay bricks
                    ‘Pat”
                     of rain on rooftops
                                   & falsely take it
                                       for Charlie Parker's
                                                     'Hot House'
but it’s 2am near Tulane
  & they’ve graduated to
                  tracks from Tremé;
                  Brass jazz & barflies;
                  Mad Hatters & Mademoiselles
                                     dancing barefoot
                                     in the French Quarters
                                            under red fluorescent lights
                                               under cloud-covered stars;
She gets them drunk off dance & song;
Guaranteed to make locals
                      late to last call;
                      shows them back-country gems,
                        the beautiful ruins known only
                                                      by bayou gals
                                                            & city folk
outside,                                              in search of sirens
where the ceiling's missing,
dancing 'till their bodies taste like rain

They 'crash'
                    &
                       'splash'
                                       .....breaking through worn wooden floors
                                                          ­           & cracks in plaster walls
lead by the ‘Pit’                                                     back to the street,
                        &
                      ‘Pat’
                              as other strange drops join the dance,
                              descending from skies to rooftops;
                                                     Finding lower highs
                                                     in search of Bourbon Street
                                                          ­          lost & looking
&                                                                 near Tulane at 2am
my blue suede shoes are dying of thirst,
                                 stuck upon each step;
                                          lacking direction
&                                         looking for jazz
waiting to drown
      in the 'Pit'
                 & 'Pat'
                     & splash
                         of this daily rain dance;
                         Lose myself in this listening
                         as dreamers do
                             on the streets near Tulane
                             At 2am;