He breathed out the blues with the release of a raspy washboard, capturing the days full of sweat under a full sun or nights hanging moss or in backrooms where spilled whiskey drenches sawdust floors. He had a birth of songs flash spitting from hot greasy pans of his kingdom high thoughts, peppered with … More BLUES MAN
Songs overflow from doors opening to the sidewalk where.neon lights baptize the weak, stirring the curiosity of a night strung tight while others pray in alleys whispering their sins under a celestial curtain as stars cross behind the black of space where not a molecule is out of place as cool air covers the tapestry … More FINDING NIGHT
The tumblers of the day turned down locked out a yellow sun pushed up and out by hounds howling at a smiling round moon with a cheesy smile smiling into a crowd rightly smelling the jazz splashing fast over them like rain of summer warm with wet finding faces and staining forever their insides … More SPLASHING FAST
The notes had feet running me down with slaps to my face speaking hard of the pain forged in rooms with smoke and ice as the beat jumped me like thieves intent on harm bruising with jive a blues fat with thick and jazz painted black. running songs fast with lust and catch them all … More BRUISING WITH JIVE
Ain’t it grand? muddy waters, delta deep, catfish frying, jambalaya boiling, sugar cane bending from warm thick passing, southerly breezes. Ain’t no denying music in the soul, gotta get out past mamma Jem into icy pans where beers waiting and whiskey calls with cool drops to sooth my hots. Girls deep dancing, and … More AIN’T IT GRAND
He came from no place good; unpaved roads lick his dusty feet. Magnolias fold at his passing, mourning his loss and without. There are no warnings within him. No trappings snare his feet. His words are swollen streams, turning violent winds into jazz, soaking faces with song. He’s been … More BREATHING GRAY
Under the skin, a motor of sound. Molasses fingertips play dark thick jazz. Wet soaked dirt roads kick start the aroma of his thoughts. Smooth perfumed skin smiles into his lust. His mile of strong words runs like a river engine; a power few own. A wind moves on a sweet green growing field. His … More DEEP POCKETS
His arms were roots, thirsty for water; its color and taste indifferent to his lust. His hair boasted unruliness, dry and odd shaped, like unkempt fields leaning from wild winds. He disconnected himself, inventing sounds from tears while his skin was sore from long work and seeing empty plates and passing rocks that … More AT THE TOP
The crowd, a mass of willing flesh, absorb the fire of his sound. Their greed is unsatisfied, unquenched, burning with the blood of dance; it warms cool air. The man with great voice tastes his words, releasing thoughts from corners and shadows, spreading the jazz, bandaging the hurt in the … More FALLEN STARS
The piano player snapped into notes of busy, lousy with heavy jive so thick with curtained waves of song folks found to the comfort bended knees like Sunday preaching at the altar lifting hands begging more of the same to wash over flow over send them heaven home where music … More LIFTING OF HANDS
Roger Singer 