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
The music circles;
pebbles of faces
skip the pond on the
An island of jazz
floats from the city;
drifting on smoke,
Nights cool into
flashes of neon
A broken bottle
rattle to a homeless stop;
the end of
Car doors clap.
Eyes injected with youth,
fail onto tomorrows
The music burns the blues,
steaming to sharp
Eugene Chadbourne 1977 | Photo: Mark Weber
Problems got me under the rush
I drown in the pain
while pushing the jive and juice to
exposing the dark side of me.
The point of music sticks
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
when with her.