From tiled sanctuary
My steam rises
Up, out from crunkling bubbles
Cloaking me
In a universe of soap, quantum soup
Malleable as the oboe
Upstairs.
There, the player turns
Their instrument round
Upon me, crooning
“Silken, silken night,
O silken, silken night,
Who are we? For I, am.”
And all my world is edge-lit.
Continue reading “O silken, silken night”
He singles in on the gentle trickle of gin over ice cubes, and the hummingbird thrum of metal skimming glass as the bartender mixes a drink. He blocks everything else out until this tiny alcoholic waterfall is the only sound in the world. And then, beat by beat, and with controlled countenance, he lets the noises of the evening back in. Continue reading “Listening to Miles Davis on a Bus in Argentina”
This guy on the piano here,
with his cap on frontways
so you know he’s serious.
He’s grinning like he’s hopped up,
his fingers working bass and keys
simultaneously, the sway of his head
shaking the whole room. Continue reading “The Piano Man”
