And where do you keep the jazz?
Where do you store the melancholy,
the self-reflection
and the escape.
Direct me to the place you keep
for your inner, your deeper,
your best kept back
and let's sit and explore,
let's jazz and coalesce
into a more honest
and more innovative
improv.

Speak up more, not less, using your own ideo-vocalized mess.

Soliloquy  — in front of yourself and everyone else-a-melse.

Monologue, dog!

You and I can flip-flop nonstop lolly pop but that gets trite fast and then we just so need to speak our favor-ite verbo-bite.

Bebop, hiphop, tipitity-top, slop-a-pop.

Ski-ba-bop-ba-bop-voc; do that thang nonstop.

Be-cause …

We have been flattened by the road-grade blade of the prepaid lexicographers.

We have been run over by the top-botched, pop-a-voc.

We have suffered weak-a-squeak.

We have sold out for safety and we have shut up way too much because we thought we were stuck-a-muck with duck and cluck.

Nope! Fess; you’ve got that vocable mess!

Unperson; you’ll worsen, but word-dive and jivity jive and you’ll revive.

See!

Be inventy.

Sync with your blink.

Que with your you and do-ba-de-do

Swing me!

Grab me by the hand, pull me through the door-frame,
Out of the sleepy twilight world and into the jazz bar bursting with life,
The air humming with sound, the lights buzzing vibrant,
The rhythm of the bass and drums already ingrained in the bounce of your step like it's a language you've always known how to speak.

Ask me for a dance, smile before I can even answer,
Dive into the mass of people who move, sway, breathe with the music, adding their own melodies with every clap of their hands, Every laugh that harmonizes with the trumpets and horns, the swish of every colorful dress that spins like a top --
Spin me like a top!

Pull me back to you just as fast, let our clumsy feet untangle themselves to step in unison,
Sing out in joy as the band drives the song on and on and on,
Bass and drums a motor endlessly running,
Trumpet a daredevil leaping and diving, piano bursting underneath like sparks,
Knowing that while the sleepy twilight world closes its eyes and drifts listlessly on,
This is where we are meant to be.

And honey, I don't care if you stutter when you talk,
I don't care if you trip over your own two feet,
If your laugh is too loud, if your eyes turn downward every time you speak,
As long as you love me here, and spin me like this music will never end,
Sweetheart, that's a plenty for me.

The worst part is the lack
Of color
Vibrance…
And no amount of Giant Steps
Could avoid the emptiness.

I heard about a torture technique
Where the prisoner is placed in an
Empty white room
With only white light to see
And white rice to eat.
I think the alienation I feel
Is like a form of that.
Lifelike solitary confinement.

.
Notes wash over
The no angled ear
Listener, journeyer
See trails leading
To a cloud of sun,
Break in the skies,
Soon to know again
What was creeping
In the eyes of restless
Thought, unrequited
Sense, the whirling
Ride in the globes
Of vertigo and touch.

Dismembered by mood,
The musician conjures
Lost jewels in thought,
Sparks to the mind,
Sorcery in the bland,
Wayout, man, you dig,
Tap the deep rythmns
Drowning under toes,
Shutters we have lined
Go ourselves together
In the blinds.  Turn on,

Off those penny eyes,
The horn careening
In its heights of low
Down blues and sheen,
Be bop and stirring
In a rush, unfinished
The player knows
Your got number,
Is offbeat, syncopated
With the pearly drums
Of the sheet, read heart.

Jazzman is charmer
To sleepy serpent
Kept, shot in only bars
That leech into night,
The looking glasses
Pouring over misery
Ride sweet nowhere
In the tempos of fix,
Youngling daddy-o,
Plenty is the brass horn
Of Jazz in the clears,
Cool fingers singing
What the mind hears.
.