My Other Jazz Poem


I wish I was driving an old Coup de Ville
racing the moon to the crest of the hill
top down, ‘Trane on, one lucky gal by my side,
and on past that old devil moon we would ride

Rolling up to a club, stop, park, and take five
where the band members smoke, talking their jive
fine-tuning and synchin’ their cool jazz machine
Jill straightens her stockings, black nylon seam
leads the eyes up shapely cheerleader thighs
into taffeta mystery, source of tenor sax sighs….

I wish I was in a hot club in Paree, off the Champs Elysees,
Django strumming and picking, Grapelli’s violin swirling.
le mustache a’twirling, and with grape, goatee, and beret
my charms win the arms of un jeune fille for the day…..

I wish I was in a bad-ass Spad, machine-gun drumming
along to Satchmo’s Hot Five, or his hotter-yet Seven
Scarf watching my back, whipping this way and that
seeking Junkers and Fokkers and Halberstadts.
We are soloists vying for control of the skies
a contest of skill with no second prize…..

Or maybe been there for Jack Johnson’s great fight
and bet against Jeffries, to the bookie’s delight
Then watch as Johnson wrote Miles a song
about victory and pride, fifteen rounds long
scored for feints, right jabs, and left hooks
a coda comprised of white faces’ lost looks…

With Bolden and Bix, I’d share a few beers
tell’em how jazz has changed through the years
How they teach it in schools, and call it an art
But a study of notes won’t reveal the heart
that beats in odd times, and lives on still
sounds fine on the radio in my old Coup DeVille.

2 responses to this post.

  1. Cool man, real coooool.


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