Your trombone wants to KILL the blues.
Doesn’t it? I mean the Baby Boomer Blues.
The All-I-wanna-hear-me is-funk’n-Blues.
Forget what it ain’t, let’s explain what is.
Total Sonic Immersion. But Christ,
if writing it could say it,
why would you use music?
Still our extinction swings (according to you.)
My good friend: we can paint it another
way, you also have been heard to sing.
An eastern rag! The Noise and the Space Between.
Free, it wants to end free.
Poor Poetry and Pompous Prosaics!
Words only glimpse our aural journeys.
For those willing to pay full fare, then
the complete destination’s just ahead…
but only if you listen.
When I hear your jazz