multicolored lights flashing
slowly, slowly, slowly
smoke from cigarettes wafting
slowly, slowly, slowly
you take in the smells and sights
of the small room that you're in
it's a crap hole, you cannot lie
perhaps that is why you're drawn to it
how can such lovely sounds
come from such a humble place
a place that makes you stink of
smoke and alcohol, sadness and joy
I see their dark silhouettes against
the spotlights of the dim room
I see their fingers dancing across strings and keys
I see a single man keeping a heartbeat alive
he hits the drums and plays like
he's going to make the room fall apart
with a cacophony of loud crashes and
a choir of subtle tapping, all together
they play like they want the world to know
of the mess they hold within themselves
the mess that wants to create art for all
those who are willing to listen can hear it
not a single beat can ever be repeated the same way
not a single moment can ever be duplicated again
this is no song, this is no empty stream of notes and tones
this is a conversation between artists and dreamers
these are their hopes and wishes
these are their darkest secrets
things they will only ever share once
this is beauty and chaos as a whole
this is jazz
A poem of my experiences going to a certain jazz bar. Man, I love jazz.
