It’s Saturday afternoon and I cry at the black and white picture tv like I learned
to watch Lawrence Welk from North Dakota, just across the line, only white people
me more related to the Germans even then lensing this show in a Dusseldorf club
with hardly hardly a light Wynton Kelley plays  his soul on the chords
his every wish in the piano solo bringing tears to bassist Paul Chambers
behind him and me in front of my computer screen.

Drummer Jimmy Cobb knocks it out of the room, I can’t catch rhythm
no matter how steady.  This is the music  the music I can’t play
by ear or by wish but I can hear, dancing in my power chair like a psychedelic pony
at a Santana concert, when I listen real  hard jazz music brings me risk,
a thrill ride, a trip with the best blues, be and hard bop, with Old Dutch
potato chips and Coca Cola, my treat from Pete’s across the street.

 Got no whisky, got no cigarettes, I got no rhythm, but one last rhyme
’cause a I got a bucket of bebop, lifting me into bath night one more time.  


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