Poem for The Oliver Jones Trio at the Jazz Bistro 11/24/2016
Poetry is Jazz, the words we don’t say.
Missing beats and rhythms of fractured minds –
Playing the tunes that hang between our words
But the truth is, nobody listens to jazz anymore.
Rhythm, deviation, improvisation.
Squeeze tight, the world slipping between fingers
If you want for want for want, don’t say words.
Nobody cares about our missing words.
Poets and players matter to nobodies.
For life is about the notes we don’t play.
Should I say, everything will be okay
Repetition, rhythm, meter, scale.
Sifting in the dark, old scratches sing sweet,
In tune on page, nobodies have it all.
Nobodies care about the missing notes
Nobodies’ got about the words we didn’t say
Repetition, improvisation, end.