Rufus Reid 1979 | Photo: Mark Weber
I SING THE REMEMBERS
The notes sing to me.
A grandma spiritual; warm evenings,
bugs buzzing on yellow lights,
a fever of warmth. Night solid with dark;
the breath of men gasp tired.I see my youth. A ball of knots.
Tied up in love, broken under the
weight of tears; running eyes, inhaling
life into my soul.The tracks on my bass; cold lines,
heated with fingers, spilling a story,
pages of pain. Fish jump in my head,
pulling me home. The river knows my name.I cry the spiritual alive. Pull at its feet.
Knocking it down, wresting like Gabriel.
Forcing the mist of its shape to surrender
the jazz. Touching the groove in me;
I sing the remembers.
Butch Morris & Frank Lowe 1979 | Photo: Mark Weber
CONCRETE HARD
The music circles;
pebbles of faces
skip the pond on the
crowd.An island of jazz
floats from the city;
drifting on smoke,
danced by
shadows.Concrete hard.
Nights cool into
flashes of neon
arrows.A broken bottle
and hearts,
rattle to a homeless stop;
silence signals
the end of
hope.Car doors clap.
Eyes injected with youth,
fail onto tomorrows
promise.The music burns the blues,
steaming to sharp
creases.
Eugene Chadbourne 1977 | Photo: Mark Weber
WITH HER
Problems got me under the rush
of jazz;
I drown in the pain
while pushing the jive and juice to
the surface,
exposing the dark side of me.The point of music sticks
me good;
I bleed a hole wide like rivers
covering my head,
causing my air to gasp;
glaciers of jam cover me.The neck of my guitar bends to
the warm will of her eyes.The song of words I sing
leads me to the hell I
run from,
when with her.