the cotton club and shootin’ for you
his need to pull out of a splendid hole put him in a barely better home,
a city that allowed quasi-happiness, money, his shows
that moved from london to chicago while technique and velocity became nuance
armstrong smoked weed before shows, after shows, with coffee
catapulted by the mob to open doors, to revenues and fame
so movies would reel out
with his trombone tone everyone knew and showered in
his blessed madam calming came out of a club
and into a waiting taxi
‘pops’ bumbling over himself and bass players to make room for love,
his heart completely hers, joyous confetti, she, that louisiana princess,
the last wife was a detail,
the halls, in new york, in germany singing to hear eisenhower wasn’t
ready to kill jim crow as europe never blinked, africa suffered,
everyone saw blood,
a million eyes looking forward, his bare-chested affection for the south,
a pale nemesis
he shoveled so much of himself out, gone, given, free-for-the-most-part,
an anti-tommy hiding as a rebel
with this broad, intelligent smile, beauty bowing before royalty,
making governments call out communist while his music won the war
© Charles C Brooks III
**** **** **** ****
Q&A
Q: Where do you write? Is Ambiance Important?
Poetry comes to me anywhere. I carry small notebooks and if some nuance grabs me I’ll write it down immediately. Yet, I do all the refining in my study. Especially with my more involved, lengthy pieces I have to be in a place that’s designed around me. I envy those who can compose in their cars or while working a day job. There’s never a time I write without music. Even outside I am plugged in. Music made me want to be a poet.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment