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snaps fingers

and aligns rhythms to

the cool jazz which aligns the walls

in this room.


ivory keys glistening, begging to be touched

sheet-music dance to the notes

and beats, clefs and unheard baritone.


smooth octaves ranging into

unheard dimensions

goosebumps prickling the heated

skin of stage lights and

amps powered by electricity.




she sings. a moment filled with

Nina Simone and Billie Holiday

of Strange Fruit and

the Other Woman.


a hushed crowd awakened by

systematic beats and warm breath

kissing the microphone hips

synchronized in rhythm as dim lights

give birth to slow dancing.




the effervescence of alcohol and tobacco

fill the room, signs of swayed physiques

and temples glistening with sweat.

but she moves. moves still/enraptured

and captured the moment of

toothpicks hanging from full lips

and pink blossom makeup blushed

intertwined with cherry red lips.




epitome of craving and wanting

the kind where empty stomachs are never filled

late night chicken wafts the air

and hot grease becomes insatiable mixed

with the feeding of warm liquor

in the veins. Insatiable.

Truly insatiable.

where one brush of the lips

become a kiss

the kiss gives definition to bliss

and bliss gives birth to a new day

spent skin to skin touched under cheap

cotton sheets.


it is a new day.


awakened by the golden rays

bounced off of Grandma's curtains

lace detailed and hand crafted,

the peek in the shadows produced

a new figure. he comes. half-full cup of

java brewing awaking the air with

a thick breeze of freshly ground beans

of Arabica nature.


a crease in the bed


he sits. mug in hand

a soft olive branch of extension

for the unforgiving look of messy hair pulled

and hot combs to re-make the up-do.


she smiles.


throws on Benny Goodman

and bops head. Rhythm.

from the stage to the room

to the dawn from the midnight glow-


this jazz thang Baby-

is all she knows.





For Scott Joplin.


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