She’s got the pain of me in her walking hard on shadows of who we were. Her voice is my jazz favoring thoughts she planted with the water of her touch. We have captured the deep caves of each other seeing in the dark what others with eyes will never grasp.
Blow horn man blow dark out of night with wicked blasts scaring the silence into running. Blow hard knocking down the bones of stand up music into rattling corner dice. Blow long that solid note piercing sharp like a knife cutting deep opening wide the jazz.
A high lunar slice silver painted a sterile face unlikely warm soundless suspended solidly overhead where hinges in heaven slip it over nights curved sky speeding to a place over there where people point at shards of light reflecting on water hoods of cars windows the ancient stone the Mona Lisa moon half smiling. … More MONA LISA MOON
One step, two, the march of funeral feet slaps leather to pavement and jazz for the dead. ….blow mighty the horn of Gabriel. Tambourines snap under white parasols and spotless suits; angels watch in jealous pain. …the band lifts spirits beyond the grave. Black hands and red fingernails hold fever tight handkerchiefs, waving parade air … More FUNERAL MARCH
My walking soul, borne on the blood leather of my shoes, scratches its skin on the red uneven bricks below my curious walking. The aroma of gardenias melts from trees like icing on warm days running thick and sweetly; crooked fingered branches above reach stiff like the dead. A snappy stringed guitar … More JACKSON SQUARE
She was a chance for good air the beginning of song released in the wings of her words bold with color strong with history on the stage where she worshipped the words opening black nights with subtle breezes like her travel to towns blurred with names and faces melting into … More SUBTLE BREEZES
Innocent violence creates the sediment of the street. The people, the open windows, full of colors, spirits lifting out of gray shadows and black roads. The streets are never satisfied, always hungry, hands reaching Hammering voices, Words speaking loud and sweat dripping. City spirits drift uneasy, searching … More HIGH GROUND
Anxious up-filled boxes of unpacked thoughts awake. Hands begin to assemble the day. Idle parts take form. The first steps of the city begin to move. A mass of faces blur into colors. Space is challenged. Lines like yesterday appear. Armies of legs swing into force as the city moves the gears of People.
I’ve become The dot On the i In your sentence About me That i no longer Fit with u. I am d r i f t i n g, Settling uneasy Like turbulent Stormy silt Pushed out and Away. Clouds watch me Wander as my Hands slash At the air With words Of anger From … More THE DOT ON YOUR i
ON DIVISADERO A hill with faces and sidewalks, green shoes and sneakers without laces, chalkboard menus, peppers and onions and bicycles passing apartments with yellow shutters and terracotta pots with flowers reaching over touching heads as buses crawl and street cars sing the cables and pulleys stretch, the youth laugh with tan skin and … More ON DIVISADERO
Roger Singer 