Tuesday, September 21, 2010


slip away from this brick and mortar world,
into checkered beats,
and black lit triads,
step down your leather shoes,
into a puddle of spit,
wipe your valves,
with a sweat dampened rag,
find the half-count,
pick-up on this B flat,
move to the F then to the E,
and hold it gently but tightly,
until your air is gone,
your lungs burn,
your veins throb,
empty all of yourself,
so there's nothing left to bury,
but a trill,
a rim-shot,
a pause...



Fisheye Lens said...

Nice panegyric on Chet. Another reminder of how much I miss the blog. Hope to revisit the Grand Productive Days soon.

Square Corner said...

Good. Like a great song, it takes you somewhere. The poem dissects jazz, like it dissects the human condition. Job well done, HP.

Brother Ollie said...

Time to lock the doors - pull the curtains - slide on some earphones and embrace jazz.

Juice Box said...

Beautiful, really brings you to the heart of music performed on stage.

signed...bkm said...

brillant ...love it, can feel the whole piece...bkm