They call him the watchman, caretaker of night air within a fenced area at the lower lip of town. He walks slowly with a slight limp, checking locked doors, marking the time, scuffing in black untied boots on paths he made. His eyes are sad, malaise filled like curtains almost closed, leaving a slight crease … More THE WATCHMAN
THAT BRASSY THING In him that thing voiced a noise, circling, surfacing, beating his insides until busting out with the jazz then rising, filling the air with his lightening, pushing brass into highs and making the lows cry tears of songs deep from wells where he sleeps, thinking strong with busy fingers, … More THAT BRASSY THING
The stars don’t have a chance and that moon up there fat with cheese smiling silver and winking cold holds not a candle to the man and his guitar pulling strings thick like Christmas bows each note popping up like the sun but that to can’t hold no heat when those picking … More SNAPPING THOSE STRINGS
An irrepressible deep river roared under a smooth surface. The water parts are filled from rain and streams and the undergrowth of the weak. The high banks lay evidence to the force Of soil breaking. Trees bend. Rocks tilt. All parts yielding to the waters grasp and flow. A lean subtle confident power pushes on … More ROARING
An energy wind rolled over gray stones and sand; the spent blood of glaciers. Dark waters, the fluid of night oceans, reflects stars and a crescent cold moon. The last of the clouds discharges a mist; absorbed without voices into horizons . Heaven opens night’s gates, releasing … More NIGHT OCEANS
Half sleep gathered me into boughs of night where dreamscapes of waterfalls and colored carnival lights shined onto a blue wall. Careless curtains beckon me to open the window where stars resemble musical notes, blinking out songs. My room capsizes as water rushes in, circling my ankles … More CROSSING BOARDERS
I know the face of 3am. It pulls tight at the bones of my rest, unwrapping the scaffolding of my cellophane sleep, breaking into my room; my eyes open into a dark sea of nothing. 3am is a black star absent of an orbit, a horizon fused into the soup … More 3 AM
A hard wind jumped eagerly from the stage, creeping into pockets and knocking on hats, forming a sweat then slapping the wall like heavy fast running water, a high tide of notes crests thick as a wave of jazz soaks ears of wide eyed souls. Dancing dresses swirl while … More A HIGH TIDE OF NOTES
I see the remembers, with alleys dark and garbage can cats jumping a jive like horns and drums busting a beat at Tin Pan corners where neon’s red and blue point to the apples best and brightest jazz long into a night that got no end, only beginnings, striking out a rhythm busting into the … More THE ONLY APPLE
An encampment of thunder breathes boldly nearby, announcing its presence like armies marching on cobblestone streets wearing tin hats and garbage lid shoes. A salvo of explosions beats out a rhythm painting the sky and land with sound releasing the rain and a cold cutting wind speaking the language of turbulent power while claiming the … More THUNDERING
Roger Singer 