Last night wandering Covington / Newport blues bar scenes dodging schizophrenic trumpet players and men in uniform with their faced jerked into diesel smiles and salmon teeth, all for a beer and a piano for my father. Ended up at the Mansion Hill Tavern, where I have memories of being a kid breathing, just below the burned tobacco clouds trying to work up a drink as bands played.
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Pasta jazz
Street Recordings in Louisville
Recorded at Ray’s Monkey House, rotating jazz band. First clip is a random duo on the street where motorcycle mama’s were exchanging gas from the intestines of their harley’s. Random sex offers and telephone numbers, while kids push their acoustic guitars in the faces of meandering families.
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I ride an easy ticket to Frisco
to leave Phoenix and its sun,
salesmen, wearing friendship grins
until their gums bleed in the wind.
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Antenna
Kitchen, flooring peels at edges a bit, there are children’s foot-sized grooves where it creaks. The counters are clean, the sink is all soap and bubbles. Clean plates dry, sun graces dishwasher, shadows hit the dog’s mat.
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Her welfare check voice
hardline request voice
(Ain’t it tragic poise?),
demands wife abuse tales
declares life without males
combs Burger King hair,
glares joyless iris jails
raises daughters who
in wildflower skirts
dream dramatic feats.
