Streets feed on the language of cool and jive. Tongues of curtains slip from sides of windows as if pointing with their curves with creases to music like steam rising in waves over blacktop rumbling energy the sound moves pressing against doors and into alleys as night encourages the people … More STREET LANGUAGE
I love the scratchy voice of the jazz lady who brushes my ears clean. Words with thick washboard scuff scrape my soul to bleach white and preacher clean. Concrete rough words grasp my thoughts, causing the oceans in my head to tumble. Every song bends its tone like … More WITHIN HER VOICE
The crossroads of the beat fills the shoes of his travel under dark blankets of stars weeping at the making of jazz as the sweat of him drips over his eyes watering the seeds in his mouth forming words that river run his horn waking Gabriel as the sound walks the … More THE PLACE
Lazy humid Lake Pontchartrain breezes slip sideways through turquoise louvered doors past a cat, on a stool with its legs hanging like green tangled moss as the man, deep with pillow worship lays still, breathing soft, his hands open and flat holds court with dreams of last night the jazz … More PILLOW WORSHIP
Blue shirt guitar man sing me out, make my shoes tap with the drummer beating the skins to crying and sizzling the cymbals into stormy lightening. Clouded lights lift from humid whispers and smoke. Hear the bass man call out to angels in heavy clouds stirring the heavens, making rain soak their wings, forcing them … More JIVE AND JUMP
I’m living out the words from today, stretching the soul of meaning, wringing out the moisture from afternoon rains and storms. I remember the winds roughing up my hair, combing it into a mess, lifting off a few springs to tumble after green leaves and a few branches. …..and … More TODAY’S WORDS
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
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
Roger Singer 