I’m listening to “Wind” by Ibrahim Maaloouf. I am inside and outside of the music at the same time. It’s smoky, bluesy jazz, the sort that uses rich, full notes to have a conversation with your soul about emptiness. I am acutely aware of my aching distance from this bar scene, this cherished scar. The air is blue. Maybe that’s the lighting or maybe that’s the hanging cigarette smoke, curling and twisting slowly. Maybe that’s my mood.…"On Writing and Word Jazz: When anything could happen"
Don’t Make Plans for Next Tuesday We are the armies of the black, forgotten in your shadows, making your shoes, working the pumps and spigots and spitting in your food. We are the robot brigade, smiling at your complaints, seemingly impervious. But when we go home to plug in and drop out, we dream of you, taking our places and our aprons. Hearts beat beneath the name tags that allow you to forget us. Our…"This isn’t from The Little Book of Braingasms, but it’s the right bitter flavor."