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

My Master died some time ago

But he left me 'The Ways of White Folks'
And he taught me about 'Democracy'

I recall the 'Dreams' and the 'Dreams Deferred'
And how he sang 'I, Too'

With less than a hundred years between us
His lessons are the same

America for him was brutal
America for me hasn't changed

So with the words he left me,
I craft my trade in his name

With artful thought, I pay my dues
Studying my master, Langston Hughes

According to me
Falling in love is a mid-tempo jazz swing
Where the air is chilly
But she is not

All I can see
I only have eyes for you and me
And I smile when the lights look bigger than they are

I could get along without you very well
But why would I squander such a grand tale
When you are here and very near
I can feel the swing ring in my ears

Keep hold on the standing bass
and *** *** ba-dum us to a slow dance,
because the two step’s too quick
and I want to hear some sad trumpet improv;

The perfect impression of us in love.

It’s too humid here,
I can see sweat race down well-worn wrinkles
eroded into Ms. Carla from 30 years of cabaret.
She sways on the microphone,
while her deep voice hangs in the air,
fragrant, and ready to stifle the pairs
mixing love and lust beneath her stage

They move,
sweaty and close,
***** and dark,
familiar-passionate
slow,
but furious.

Another evening of Jazz and ***.

So this night passes,
a melody in my head
leading a world within my arms
as we rock,
ba-ba-ba-dummed by the bass.

I baked your skin onto the asphalt with my oven eyes
Between Macdougal and Bleecker street
Where i first met you.
Everything gray reminds me of you.
I envisioned myself
Breaking into song and dance
With everybody down every cross road,
Belting a ballad of beauty and admiration
About what you and I once were.
I relived that moment when i cried,
“She’s really gone this time”...
Yet as much as i missed her,
all i did was sway in the traffic
Of business men and women
And homeless dogs and all those
Crazy jazz cats.
I stepped precisely on each crack
I swear i didn’t mean to break your back,
Or my word that bound us
As close as the moon and the sun.
A funny promise that made my nose
Shrivel up.
I lay on the hot asphalt between Macdougal and Bleecker street,
Heartless,
Dreaming of you to come back to me.


© 2016 D.M.V