the walls and floor were blue
in the long standing home of jazz.
i sat in that room on a wednesday afternoon
and felt that color
travelling in my veins.
i imagined the room was filled not with
sunlight and the chatter of teenagers but with
moonlight and music in that melodic silence.
i tried to absorb the aura of
that room to have for myself and breathed deeply
so i would remember the taste of blue. i imagined
myself boldly uncovering the piano on that stage and
imagined the names and legends embedded in its keys.
i heard the music of times gone now,
resounding against the walls and coloring the
wild yellow audience to subtle periwinkle and
deep sapphire and even wilder blue and
suddenly i realized why the sky is that hue;
God Himself must have taken a seat there, in that
modest blue room on
18th and vine
and it made perfect sense.
this beautiful revelation i found on
a sunny wednesday afternoon
is dyed in blue.

We meek children took the stage like we
borrowed it. I approached the grand piano,
and, asking for its acceptance of my novice hands,
seated myself before it. To my immediate right,
prepared for some unknown challenge,
waited our band, our rhythm and melody. Arms raised,
fingers gently hovering over keys and strings, we
eyed our cue and took it.
Three songs turned us from an uncertain bunch to a
formidable combination. We stole that stage
(as best as any high school combo could do),
and suddenly the stage lights didn’t feel so hot;
those lights shined for us. I left that piano
as a princess leaves a crowd in awe.
We proved superior.

Perspiration coats skin
That stays invisible in the black of the night.
Rain hums an erratic but steady melody,
Leaving rhythm-keeping to the bodies;
Burnt with lust that consumed them
Quicker than rain can douse spirits,
Knowing they downed spirits in a whirl of confusion.
Throats burned, and tongues searched for answers
To questions she didn't recall asking.
Retracing memories' footsteps back...
Back to the bar where his charm set a flame that,
Ironically, made her wetter than the rain-soaked coat
That he took from her, whilst offering his own.
She remembers now.
Walking, talking, thinking away the rain,
Until his soft lips were upon hers and she resisted nothing.
Pushing, pulling, each other into a niche
That will hide their encounter from the wrong kinds of eyes.
A moment after the darkness swallows them whole
Does the predator devour its prey.
It is a prowler, always stalking the scent of pheromones,
Always leaving behind ruins.

Miles Davis soothes the madness of the morning met
Pleasantly abrupt is our perception
Too in a hurry to say thanks
Doors never held open
Don't take offense
For that's the way in the mad city

As rugged as the rust water dripping down the subway train
stained puddles marinated by ***** concrete
We walk the streets of authentic filth
Old buildings and souls
We wake to strive and be much more

Sun rays sneak past the gloomy clouds
Showing success in defeat
No matter if it be yours or mine, says nimbus
As the gray fades, we go back to black and white
Same path  
Two sides
The most precious of gifts are left unwrapped

Doves are still pigeons
And dreamers can be quitters
A forever smile is self denial
Like sweetened iced coffee
Or sweetened anything

The unsweetened mad city

© C. Valencia

Into the dust of Mojave
On a blow-away afternoon
Wandered a traveling stranger
To the highway truck stop saloon.
Taking a seat by the window
His back to the hot blowing wind
You could tell by his face he was grateful
To be out of the sun once again.

And those desert breezes call him
When he is all alone
Ask him where he’s going
He is going home.
Mysterious sandy traces lead him
Along a distant track.
Home is out there waiting
And he is going back.

Then a laugh floated up from the corner
Where the stranger had recently been.
Except for the glass he had emptied
The booth was practically clean.
Out on the road he was walking
His back to the sweltering town.
His car was still parked at the truck stop
But the stranger did not turn around.

And those desert breezes call him
When he is all alone
Ask him where he’s going
He is going home.
Mysterious sandy traces lead him
Along a distant track.
Home is out there waiting
And he is going back.

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