Jam Baby Jam

Jazz Cats

in dark shades

and skinny ties

go with

tall blondes

with great

pins

like the chocolate

and peanut butter

smash-ups

of chance and

circumstance

candy bar commercials

from my childhood.

It is bigger

than all of us.

It is the heavenly

music sung to angels

by man

at horn and keys.

The winged creatures

dig it, and the hip

guys dig them right back.

It was true

then

and it true

now.

If you want

a shot

at love

with dames

like that

forget the poems

and get

an album by

Monk or Bird

and just jam baby.

Just jam baby.



Thanks to the Henry Nemo archives. The photo above is used with their courtesy and permission.  

Black Muse

My muse,

the one who

lives

inside of me,

has gone

Dark.

She is mad.

She no longer

shares

her tales

of love

with me.

She speaks

in breathy

whispers

of  heartache,

she dares me

to die,

to pen a poetic

last note

and leave

my words

behind.

She laughs

at my pain.

She does not

know

that she remains

my Muse,

that there

is beauty still,

in the sadness.

There is art

in my 

brokenness.

The tearing away

at a man

by the

blackest Muse,

is still

better than

no muse

at all.