THAT JAZZ THING

There is a thirst in my fire.

A cloud heavy with wet,

ready to release a river.

 

In my head a muscle pushes

rocks, forcing rivers to overflow,

changing the course of

brown gravel

into the sounds of me.

 

I am a prisoner of music.

The maker of jazz and the roll of it.

A storyteller of red dirt,

off balanced fans and

empty bottles of beer.

 

I am the dog pulling on the chains

of a not so distant past.

 

Clenched fists hold no pens.

Closed eyes reject change.

 

It’s a dream that wakes me

from sleep, forcing me to do that

jazz thing.

 

 

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s