Jazz Series

[Angeline]

1.26

Dexter Calling

When he was young
he was long, tall and careless
of the slouch that would become
a stoop. Years push him down
so his light shines more from within,
his mien less panther, more
teddy bear.

It's hard to say which is more
appealing but later his mind
is clear. He threw the horse
that rode him, so what if
he don't gallop so much now?

Freedom lives wide outside time,
behind it and in all the spaces

in between. Listen.

You can peel the palimpsest
layers like onion skin, shuffle
them like cards, hear this one
that one but it's Dexter calling--

big sky eyes, feet planted,
leaning into the wind.

 

[Angeline]

1.27

Round Midnight

Since his middle name is Sphere
you expect the sound to be round
but instead it's angular and precise.

It veers toward the edge of a note
to discover its dissonant bones. It
sheds light in unexpected corners

so you know what isn't dark. Sphere
wrote Round Midnight which might
mean he was alone at the piano

round midnight fitting those combos,
those odd permutations of harmony
and discord into patterns of heart

aching beauty or maybe it was just
midnight somewhere and the moon,
pregnant and misterioso, was round

 

[Angeline]

1.28

This is my fairy tale
but we're not under a tree
with the breeze lifting
pages.

This is my mythology
but we ain't wandering
o'er misty legend lands
rainbows a'glimmer.

We're at the bar
in a faceless uptown,
a top down ride
park on a side street
and yes the trees near
the door are listening
intently.

Inside is chill and dim.
The sweetest little combo
crowds the stage the music
tickles toes and beats
the heart, bass man
right on the edge,
elbow this close
to a cymbal.

The human hum rolls on.
It's a current: voices pick up,
glasses knock back, you hear
that ice jingle jangle and smoke
crawls over it like flies.

There are no beanstalks
here. The jazzers are giants,
maybe even gods. Piano
man plays fleet like Hermes,
sailing the keys and that's gotta
be Zeus, that long-headed man
who bashes the bebop
forward.

It's controlled chaos,
Apollo in the blue spot
blows When the Sun Sets
Down South and flips
that last note into the smoke
just so the moan hurts
just right. But the crowd
only half listens
because
who, besides me, cares
about gods anymore,
anyway?