Inspired by Jack. Digging the sneaky beat back rooms. Forever.
(c) 2013 by Tim Young
Jazz torn born from
The womb of a saxophone
In the smoky black room
Back room through a tangle
Of beads, seeds potions
Shot down like shots
Lungs bursting in the alleyways
Trying to keep with the beat
Big sticks falling hard on drums
Walking proud loud
Nobody ever says nothing about
Shutting it down
Morning is night when the time
Is right the moon don’t know
Which way to turn
The sun is asleep
And nobody keeps watch
While the rest of the stars
play in the twilight and burn
Someone was saying how long is the song
How long does this song intend to go on
Because the song is long and never complete
so no way was this tune ever gonna peak
before another dawn had the chance to
sit down and eat
With the night who would soon be gone
In my dreams I still see his fingers moving
Like fireflies across them buttons on the horn
The riff repeats with the syncopated beat
Long after the drums have made their retreat
the piano perfect black and white
Croons like my baby in the jazz blast heat
Saxophone you shine like the sun
Perfect in your golden glare
Flaring at the end
Where all the notes bend
You call my name
Put my lame voice to shame
But lord knows how I love you
All the same.
I love the quiet of the stars and the darkness when there is no one else around.
(c) 2013 by Tim Young
Crazy to sit here like this in the middle of the night surrounded by a chill and the silence of a billion stars. Getting lost in the distances and confused by the length of my arms poking into darkness.
I crave a sandwich and a tall glass of milk in a well lighted kitchen with a kitchen smell where there’s a round table covered with a tablecloth yellow and blue. And a red candle glows.
And the little white lights way up high sparkle like the eyes of a big black bird.
And the bird is flying through the dark all the way into the night.
Then a moment arrives to move the billion stars into my little white bag. It’s too heavy to pick up so I push it under the tallest tree I can find. The tree sighs and shakes his heavy head.
It’s crazy in the middle of the night. I know the tree will kick the bag open. I know the big black bird will sit on my stars and claim them for his own.
I danced in the jungle with my foot a’shaking. The beat more than I
could bare. The wind was a’blowing. The trees were a’bending like the road I drove
in on. Nearly lost my life twice to speed and whiskey. And all I could feel was the
road under me. It felt hard, the road under me.
Even in the middle of the night they still talked about a risky moon. A moon rich in gold. A moon like bacon, crispy and wrinkled. A moon tossed against a tall black wall. He swore it was higher than the sky and colder than winter.
Then the moon cried real white tears splashing into moon like memories covered with the ancient dust of lost love. The crying echoed like thunder and split the night in two. And one half raised a glass and the other blew a billion kisses.