Jazz bop rebop and she won’t leave my head.
But I got Miles, too, bopping cool but hot as a gun barrel.
Touch it and the hot burns and why’s it always night time dark time when I’m digging Miles? Or Brown or Rollins.
Night and rain and she’s two years gone.
Thunder like jazz bop cannon shot. POP to my heart and I revel in the punch.
Playing in 6/8 time. Six beats to the bar, galloping along. Miles calls it ‘Flamenco Sketches,’ but I call it 6/8. Six of one, eight of another.
The music low ‘cause it’s just for me now. If she hears it, she’ll tumble: ‘He’s here.’
Someone else’s woman now and that jazz cuts deep. Every day deep. She couldn’t take me. Didn’t get me. She lost her own rhythm inside my head…didn’t dig my heart.
Hated my jazz.
Didn’t hate me, not at first note. My first notes snapped her fingers. First note was anything she wanted please just keep that smile on that beautiful face. Second note repeat plus listening to her tunes. Third note same and fourth note fifthsixthseventh note give you everything you want, scratching every itch you got.
Just tell me what’s bopping in your head.
Tell me where you’re going…
…who you’re bopping with…
…when you’ll be home…
…damn well don’t be late…
…you’re not gonna leave me playing solo.
I gotcha…locked up deep and tight inside; you and me and Miles, ain’t nobody leaving rebop.
Miles digging in my head right now, ‘Flamenco Sketches’ as I park in the dark, a shark on a lark, looking to score six in eight.
Tried to play her different songs but there’s only jazz, baby, my jazz and hard bop atop the night.
Ain’t nothing else.
Gotta cool my head. Hot as Miles melting trumpets. The jazz, mine and hers with the new him, doesn’t cool. White hot rebop now, burning me inside out.
Tape’s not even playing anymore but tunes bang bang banging in my cool shot head top.
She might hear my heart but won’t hear the six. Definitely the first. Maybe the second. Nothing after that. Can’t hear when the beats are banging inside you.
1-2-3-4-5-6.
In eight.
Steps from the train and climbs in his car. Eight seconds. Train to car. Used to be my car, sitting train-side, driving home-side. His car now with shitty tunes. Screeching Doris Day when I’m Howlin’ Wolf. Warbling Pat Boone when I’m juicing Lena Horne.
His car, his house, his arms, his sex.
But my barrel…smooth as her skin, hot as my sin.
Jazz bop rebop white hot.
Six in eight? Too many? Barrel says do it, whispers “absolutely keep the rhythm burn the bitch.” Lee Harv shot three in some number of seconds. Killed the world. I only have her.
Six shots…eight seconds…6/8…just like ‘Flamenco Sketches.’ Maybe I’ll go to Spain when she’s dead. Jazzing in Spain and she should have stayed. Not so hard to fix. I could have dug up the right key for us…tune up the heart, tune up my head. Stay and let’s play, whaddya say.
No more music but I’m walking up her walk, laying down the stomp.
Eyes flash when she sees me. Yeah, baby, that smile I needed to see.
Looking so relieved…like Miles when the solo is done and packed away until another love comes along.
Wants me here. Wants me putting it all back together for us.
6/8 and jazz bop rebop cool shot straight POP to the heart.
Flashing now not eyes but blued steel and this ain’t right. Wrong song, I wanna say.
“Finally,” she says. “Knew you’d come. Now we can be done.”
Then I’m hearing six shots…her barrel mine’s fallen in the mud and rain and I can see it in the lightning. Six shots like thunder buried deep in ‘Flamenco Sketches.’
Six shots watching my red and knowing it’s nothing but dead, baby.
But only hearing one.
6/1 and still those tunes are banging banging.
