Harlem jazz club: 1988
Old hairnet woman in big glasses
passes over the bar, smellin of
sweet smoke, rum and coke,
checkin out the only white face in the damn place,
it’s me, see?
and a baby compared to old timers who stare,
drinkin alone, no drone of conversation,
the ventilation system workin overtime this time,
everyone sweatin in this cathedral of jazz,
this temple of tempo and solo, improvisational from the get-go
with the saints of all-time in the halls on the walls,
black & white headshots, the red-hots
of bebop and rebop…Bop!
And hairnet says, Boy
I been workin here since 62, seen em all too,
the Duke and the stoned smiles of Miles
and Coltrane, Rollins and Mingus ah um,
even that phallus Marsalis,
takin jazz on his back like Atlas and shit.
Been fixin their drinks and lightin their smokes,
rollin em too, when that was the fashion, and taking the cash in
but boy I aint never seen someone so young and
so white late at night
riskin his dick for this two-bit quartet shit
Splain it to me Gilligan…
And I say, Mam,
maybe the lights too bright, your hairnet too tight, right?
but white aint no color and jazz
is a state of mind.
See I come for the drums hon, to hear how they steer it,
to savor the swish of the cymbals, the crack of the snare there
as it sets up the sax growl and the horn’s howl, grrrrrrrrrr bop!
and shit,
if that don’t make me forgit
the color of the skin I’m in,
or yours for that matter,
and focus instead on the sounds in my head,
red, like your lipstick, lover,
or yellow, like the hat on that cat over there,
but never black or white,
not even grey, because hey,
for jazz to survive until 2005,
we got to love all hues,
and the only color jazz knows
is the blues.
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