A black Oldsmobile. Chrome tips. Dinosaur eyes. Red leather seats; the chariot ride for kings. The jazz men merge through the doors. Cigarettes pulse the black air. The radio bebop’s and fingers tap; white walls kiss the road. Long nights and roads. Strange doors. Diners flash neon. Meatloaf warms the soul; the jukebox slips a … More BLACK AIR
The color in me knows the blues, it feels the hands deep pulling to the surface the song of me. Can’t wash away or drain out the fullness crowding my insides where its standing room only in hallways and from chairs full of listeners waiting for the pouring over of what I got. A song … More THE BANK OF BLUES
An open sound of notes thawed with heat what was cold and deep with loss with waves of warmth from fans in heaven rolling to the ground turning over knocking around a sound birthed as jazz and rich with blood pumping and breathing finding a breath speaking with voice like bread … More NOTE BY NOTE
He left the room bruised from his music; like a fighters corner without a stool. Strange eyes followed the linen of his walk; the breeze he caused and its wake smoothed into whispered corners. His steps owned the path to everyplace. No door offered resistance to the warmth of his cool. He … More BRASSED OUT
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
The jazz of his well overflows. The wetness of long images drip fluid hot from fingers playing the burn. A sweet pleasantness follows him. Years of heads turning form great waves behind him; the applause reaches distant galaxies. He is a cat. A prowler of music forests, yet tamed. Open souls are consumed without resistance. … More SINGLE FILE
Finger strumming finger picking the lively index finger of the bass man becomes his best friend taking him where others ain’t never going with strings from stars held over bridges like rainbows connecting mountains from valley to valley where waters run clean into pools where jazz finds its way to the surface like wood made … More INDEX FINGER
Her lipstick is the blood red of a days end. Draining slender fingers claw for heaven, stirring muddy the floor under the pearly gates. The jazz she breathed rattled high around the edges of her cup of years; the roulette wheel fails to let her secure a winning. The wrong of her makes the pain … More HER SONG TOUCH
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
…..and I say, that Lombard Street got the curves to knock the straight out of my shoes, echoing the hallway, sounding on walls cracked from fast songs and babies crying, in a city, under a heaven where angels have gone south, away from broken glass and whiskey breath made of sea foam and cold … More IT IS SO
Roger Singer 