there’s a raising at the French quarter with crowds dancing and colliding like changing tide waters crossing streets drinking with passion while cable car singers and corner horn players beat a noise under a dreary humid mist as the sweating and smiling, celebrate for any reason without a holiday


the jazz the hip the swagger the sound high life sweat and gin piano sweet horns of life dogs barking neon’s sizzle suspenders and silk pony tails beards and sash fingers snap lipstick and lace cymbals and sticks midnight and the passage to the other side


The streets are me broken chains of thought in the company of whistles and horns a subway below sidewalks of people fishing for space between crosswalks while a guitar and sax play songs for quarters and dimes all beneath a sun and clouds forming shade and shadows as the engine is motion  


          His gift thrives from his pain as he trumps the air with his horn. Golden flashes strike the wall as his hands lift the notes weighted with years. His music draws in with pull while the sounds push then tease twisting around faces like lovers’ fingers begging for mercy. He … More PUSH AND PULL


The rock of his fingers scratches out, pounds out the language of jazz, spreading over fast hearts and soft skin.   A wretched smile, crooked with time, boiled in emotion soup, spreads him out as he releases the scars of high and low, winds of cold and years remembered with trouble.   His fingers swim … More BOILED UP


          Notes with wings take flight like dust pushed by the breeze of a horn finding every corner where music brings to life snapping fingers heads bobbing eyes agreeing ears laughing as sounds fill your head like jam on toasted bread Where crumbs fall like notes with wings.       … More NOTES WITH WINGS


Spilling from an open window like morning tides creeping wet and slow into tidal basins, a horn from the second floor washes to the alley below between red chipped brick walls. Shadows form the coolness of notes, like stars falling under a black heaven pushing the beat of jazz as a man pulls the sound … More THE ALLEY BELOW


        Hearts find strength where music lives and breaths birthing thoughts like babies crying loud in any language no matter if with ten toes or twelve with brown hair or blond curls crying is crying like music that calls us to the band playing the jazz we need to hear night or … More THAT CRYING KID


AT NIGHT         Shadows intent on magic sway on plaster walls as dancing gray images surrender to kingdoms of jazz.   Horns with finger tapping and pushing tempt valves to sing on streets of gold where Gabriel’s heart frowns jealous, of the cool hots below.   The jazz continues with a rush … More AT NIGHT


          He’s a cat with fight, a tin pan scratcher, a voice clawing to the top of his jazz.   He was talked out. His fingers coaxed the horn onto alive where it throbbed like a wound or a hand shaking for whiskey.   Water fires of applause waved up. Sweaty … More SLEEPY ALLEYS