roger singer | pulling at me | brass bound | his jazz

Art Pepper 1976 | Photo: Mark Weber


A late night moon full of cheese
pushes my threads under
a canvas umbrella of jazz.

On a summer stage a sax with devil
winds fishes for souls like mine.

Weak on strength, strong with needs
I surrender at the gates where hot
is bunched tight like roses
competing with the red of your

John Gruntfest 1978 | Photo: Mark Weber


A heaven harp. Gold thick,
warmed by angels
speaks new sounds
every time touched,

…..but when I spill the swimming pleasures
aaaof my sorrows,
aaaI get the releases alive in my heaven;
aaadoors slap to open, voices sing the past
aaaIn me,

……and it’s those pleasures deep in nylon
aaaand silk and hair,
aaawarming tight the whisky in my blood,

…..and sorrows I got plenty of,
aaain a well touched deep in the
aaadark of me;
aaawhere the music breathes,

…..and when I blow that saxophone,
aaaclouds come to order,
aaawaves push backward,
aaawinds separate,

…..when the running of my fingers go
aaabrass bound.

Dave Frishberg 1979 | Photo: Mark Weber


His fingers rattled over
the white and black
of the piano like a locksmith
walking excitedly home;
keys jingle his sound
hard within the soft of him.

Bright stars flashed
from his teeth
like heaven dripping smiles;
the dark cracked open,
lighting a way for his eyes.

He was captured by the need
of his hands to
run like children,
cutting sharp,
bold with fast and direction,
colliding into the path
of his jazz.

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