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.





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