roger singer | brassed out | you unnerstand?


He left the room bruised
from his music; like a fighters
corner without a stool.

Strange eyes followed the linen
of his walk; the breeze he caused
and its wake smoothed into
whispered corners.

His steps owned the path to
No door offered resistance
to the warmth of his cool.

He shed his skin during music runs,
draining fast the blood of sound
through the voice of
sax brassed out.


My blood lives in the same color,
falling to the floor
Just like men before,
looking up from down,
pick axes swinging,
scythes beating against Harvest Moons
as they sing from turned soil
to the bottom of heaven,
looking for crumbs
and getting scraps dogs fight for
on land that never calls them master,
while sweat drips on dirt
that speaks the family of their names,
up deep from the downside,
touching their knees while bending with work
they pray for release to go
as a family, being one, gathered together,
but he stays and works long and without
knowing their ain’t no place for him
in heaven while he’s working the jazz
down here.

You unnerstand?

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