roger singer | slap jack & that jazz thing


Black bits of music air
collided with the voice of his horn.
Sugar from the stars flowed over
like icing under heat
while shoes are kicked off
and ties loosened and the corsage of night
floats over sawdust floors
rinsing up an aroma of dance
with wet shirts and nylons
dripping out of shape
and lipstick speaking lies,
the horn kicks the walls with
“I told you so”,
as table cloths bleed with stains
and cigarettes swim in
whiskey glasses
while tired fingers and eyes
step the street
seeking that room where
sleep owns the soul.


There is a thirst in my fire.
A cloud heavy with wet,
ready to release a river.

In my head a muscle pushes
rocks, forcing rivers to overflow,
changing the course of
brown gravel
into the sounds of me.

I am a prisoner of music.
The maker of jazz and the roll of it.
A storyteller of red dirt,
off balanced fans and
empty bottles of beer.

I am the dog pulling on the chains
of a not so distant past.

Clenched fists hold no pens.
Closed eyes reject change.

It’s a dream that wakes me
from sleep, forcing me to do that
jazz thing.

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