Sunday, 15 July 2012

All Things Curved, Cartoonish

the saxophone's slow slope,
the drummer's snare taps, gathering gradually
the guitar player slides into place for a full fifty seconds
before a shift the players
nail, just

i do not know jazz enough to tell you
if this is good or bad, but can say there is something
(i'm sorry) phallic about the saxophone, if not literally, holistically
(what a weird looking dick) in pieces, mabye, like three or
four (quite large) dicks taped together,or less literally, 
just something SPIRITUALLY phallic

and I'm reminded of a carlos santana interview
where he stroked an acoustic guitar slowly, with two
fingers, back and forth, as he talked about the
sensuality of the music, the shape of the instrument
like a beautiful woman
without a head.

i do not know if the guitar player likes santana. that
is probably beside the point, what i do know is
it is too light
and the shades
aren't drawn
and it will be three hours
until it feels like a jazz club

and sweet potato fries
dipped in ranch
and a laptop
belie the potential of this place
for nostalgic poetry, completely
displaced from the overdoses
of yesteryear's jazz

but I do know
that the servers are neither sexy 
nor grizzled enough, in their loose
buttondowns. They are, mind you, sexy and grizzled enough
for real life, or most bars, but they aren't SAXOPHONE SEXY,
where all the women become fluid cartoons, in 
teetering proportions and official classy sex uniforms
from a deliciously repressed era,
all the men, cowled and coiffed and quick with a line
and probably good at the saxophone

and there is no one in here like that
except for this one couple, at a table,
with ranch and potato chips
and with a diet like that,
you know they aren't here for the music.

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