The Hard Jazz

Be-bop blue-whop sashay-boom bop
The dark horn flies up a discordant scale.
Insane, inane, the keys– white, black–
recall the swift, echoing cries
of a padded room in the mental ward.
Slap pop glip glop, the electric bass
amplifies a rhythm so driving
that one absolutely has no choice
but dance.
The snare-drum speaks
as both sticks combine
again and over, fifteen seconds
building to a climax,
both towering and vast.

Suddenly, silence, or so it seems,
the volume so slight,
the tempo so subtle.
From amidst a swamp
of harmonies– black and white–
condensations of melody
dew glassily.
Be-bop shuffle-hum
now trumpet
now bass
now piano


more fevered

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