Jazz Is…
Jazz is clicking and rattling like dice in hollow skulls… thoughts tapping their fingers on the enamel of music’s embryo.
The drums chatter… they murmur below the surface like simmering explosions.
The high hat is a kitchen accident.
And Max Roach is red handed… controlling grenades…
With singing pistols yelping like cynical angels caught in the sound cloud’s raindrops…
Teardrops beating empty tunnels with skin.
Drum on…
Jazz is the drizzled drool of cool from a golden throated… glowing
Black swan… screaming in pain… a gorgeous hurt from the captive saxophone imprisoned in Nina Simone’s stomach.
With closed lips… muffled whines… a honey drip hum…
Sing on…
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