Tell me about the voices—
talk on pure
and
ill-sung choices
you’ve made because of them.

The improvisation;
compulsion;
spontaneous combustion
of slamming
random
the piano keys
before you,
set.
The consequential sounds
that ring discordant days
of chaos,
impossible
to forget.

And yet—
it resembles something
memorable;
for better,
not for worse.
For it all composed you
into the well-tuned
arrangement
that
you
are.
Verse by verse;
sporadic,
unrehearsed.

But how these tired voices don’t quite
sit so tight
nor fit so right
anymore—
the d
r
i
z
z
l
e of jazz noir
that rains down o’er
the long, distant,
sultry hours of summer.

And yes—
I adore this unrepeating repertoire
of contrast;
the juxtaposition;
the unexpected change of tone.

The s l o w and lone meandering
snare-brushed rhythm
of your mahogany hair,
keeping time
in the low-lit mood
of your eyelids.
The soloing saxophone
of your stare—
bluish with cheeks ablush, embodying
twin rose-tinted spotlights which exude
a hue that bids
a fond farewell
to the outside world.

It’s just us—
me
and you,
and these voices—
old and new.

© Joseph Chin
#love #music #jazz #beauty #nature #summer