Poetry Blog

drifting through tattooed streets,
where every wall and bin is tagged.
tangled black and white keys
ring like diner bells.

these street signs are alien,
but i know live jazz
when it hooks its fingers at my waistband
and draws me down a flight of stairs

where a fedora’s shadow
slides a menu
through a puddle of gin.

“the next set starts in fifteen,”
he says.

in the corner, a killer
beats the keys bloody
mouth wide with a howl
above a soul patch.

cooking.

but
when served
through tinny speakers,
i’m not eating.

jazz is a meal consumed live
or not at all.