Jazz tastes like paramedic transport awaiting the next wheelchair victim. He was veteran of a war never fought well by either side. It tastes like loud post-sex voices yelling sour nothings into the night sky as if cassiopeia cared enough to listen. She shrugs her celestial shoulders, indifferent. She knows what jazz tastes like. Notes of sugary sweet roasted caramel like nods toward nice conversation in the face of complete and willing annihilation. Silky smooth finish with sweet refrain, fragrant highs, and violent, depressing lows. Jazz tastes like defeat.
At the end of this jazz-tasting I wished deeply that living musicians of a caliber beyond the normal spectrum of light and sound and thought fulfilled the senses. Listening to the sour counterpoint melodies, we realize the different tone of our thoughts and hate hearing what the other side sounds like. We’ll never know the tonal quality of greener grasses. We can’t climb fences without the sensation of touch. Our numb hands could never lift us up.
This club is a smoke filled candy shop and we are eager children. We will smoke ourselves into an unrecognizable oblivion with the windows closed. There is no ventilation. We will inhale sugar as soon as we expel our sour demons. Our lungs know the cleansing feeling jazz causes inside of them. It sands the jagged interior walls down and whitens the bronchi like glittering teeth on a sparkling movie set. This smoothing-out of rough terrain is not pretty or painless. I know we feel the same pain and that seems enough.
Waiting on the doorstep, tasting bitter jazz defeat, I hope for human interaction and conversation. No nods or smiles. No eye contact or lit cigarettes. Late night cars pass, piloted by drunks away from bars toward other bars belonging behind bars. I hear ten thousand air conditioning units and crickets tenfold. Random bursts of angry Spanish. No one exists in a paradigm big enough to fit me or my spasms.
Jazz tastes like a freshly painted multiple lane road that is closed for rush hours. Cars are towed and destroyed. It tastes like the slowest processor and the disability for hollow minds to feel any sinceritiy in their stupid threats against reading and the ultimate disrespect for beauty. The flagrant disrespect for beautiful things as they are, without monetary value added stupidly.
Jazz tastes like a broken edge night of self defeat.
I look forward to the next time we can improvise so blissfully once more.
What a relief.