A lost calling. The seasons changing without notice. A misplacement of the misplaced; The Beat Generation. They were crusaders of the word; always someplace and never without cool. Shirts and shoes unrequired from San Francisco to West 46th Street. Their pain was locked in the fists of their resistance. Eyes deaf toward the average, they … More WHERE ARE THEY?
Just let it crash on me heavy like summer rain washing my face beating me like wind over with around twisting my thoughts straight with moving jazz like catching a train that never stops traveling hard with song holding me like lovers eyes winking fat with lust making me stumble drunk with needs and calling … More CARRIED AWAY
An over wind pushed up a black shirt collar; his shoes form a bond with wet sidewalks. His eyes absorb the night, like a hawk searching the land. Lines of street lights step him from one circle to the next, where he slides through shadows with cool his face. The sky broods … More THE GARDEN OF SKIN
A full puff of air filled my sail lifting the need of my soul pushing me with lovers hands into up and over settling into my ears oiling my breathing parts nurturing me with the strength of a rushing train heavy on metal tracks rolling with running blowing steam crazy with sound grabbing the crowd … More CRAZY WITH SOUND
Real time straight jazz curved the room. Its ribbons of play formed justice to notes, releasing streams of fever. Unconnected sounds rush over a landscape of faces and whispering fingers. The pulse of breathing mists the windows as dancers and spirits of long nights course their path to dawn. Red dusted words … More THE PATH
A thickness of quiet pulled the air into slow where it begged to be filled. A big muddy of thoughts spread over the crowd, like the water they were; wet collars, sweaty palms. A low tide of moving hands struck a line of strings, releasing songs too heavy for corners, to bright to hide. … More A LINE OF STRINGS
The dirt of jazz roams like roads under his skin. He feels the change of his blood to hot. Listeners drip words from warm whiskey. High collars and smooth talk rolls off chairs of night wisdom. Eyes breathe in an appetite of full. A piano dresses the air with diamonds. Voices long like ribbons pull … More CONTROL
He was a sax man, raising the heat on the here and down, firing up stoves, cooking with jazz, pushing it with a lifting of hands, creating great sounds from reaching as the wall clock crosses over to tomorrow jumping his ride colliding with the sun, splitting the shade to shadows and jive until night … More WHERE DREAMS MELT
Up from the rafters of the underfloor, the old man forces the his sax to whisper out the birth of favored notes. His fingers strain and shoulders ache but he plays from his mind the songs he knows, remembering the clubs and dancers, the circling smoke and passionate eyes absorbing the music. In his … More THE UNDERFLOOR
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
Roger Singer 