The Double Bass Jazz Maker
The Jazz Maker
By A.Gagliardi
He dons his Double Bass,
making love to it
as he strums the strings
caressing its slender neck.
Swear words create a surprise punch
to his syncopated lyrics.
I close my eyes to narrow the focus,
to listen better; to see the
pictures painted with his sound;
finishing sentences with notes instead of words.
And it is all right.
He takes a tune and runs amok with it.
The music washes me in the blood of the Lamb.
I hear the instruments dance with each other
in the minor keys of my desires.
My chest is the tympani, Tympani, Tympani
echoing their beat.
Dimmed lights reveal the kitchen colloquy
tapping perfect time;
vibrating with the new rhythm created.
And it is all right.
His jazz takes me to a
new place, new place, NEW PLACE.
The smell of the wine as I raise my glass
mingles with your perfume and
the slap of his shoe on the floor.
His hand beats a rhythm on the wood of the
Piano – providing percussion - a beat, a beat, a beat.
And it is all right.
How does an hour go by unaware?
How does the music take me
to another place?
He sorts the notes into new lengths;
stretching and repeating phrases,
creating a dissertation.
I follow the beat down the rabbit hole;
feeling the wine slide
Smoothly down, Smoothly down, Smoothly down .
My ears resonate with his rhythm.
And it is all right.