for chet baker.

It's as hot as Amsterdam hell at 3 am and what sits on a windowsill but birds that know how to?

Balance themselves with painfully sensitive feet; the son et lu-miere for that darkened history

of sound and light. Some travelers claim to have been everywhere. We shant. Though knowledgeable

and cultured; a sophist of often specious reasoning. Got his a*s kicked trying to buy dope in Frisco.

And as a bird who bathes his wings in the sweetened marsh; in the sherbet mountain air. Those

left at windows with runny eyes, sentimentally mawkish, soaked through saturated bop horizontals,

cannot.

I can still hear the love songs of confinement. The arch resembling a rainbow made by the

sun shining though vapor and mist. The rays, the rays divulging the songs at The Village Gate from

the sweet syrup of crushed fruit. But this ain't no poem about pain man. About how you compare

it's browns to the light bright chestnuts of autumn. What expressible grief is left over from the

clusters of sporangia on a face now tolerable motionless. In those instances of sorting thru the

sostenuto of futures, there resides no past.

Everything is true now brother. The stirrup shaped footrest we called the blues,

came true.

Reviews

[Delmar Cooper]

Why do the blues make me so happy? You cry when you are happy too, you know?

[W.k.kortas]

Didn't Miles punch him out once? I know there was some animosity there. If art and the blues are each their own enigma....well, Chet was the poster boy.

[h d e rushin]

I think Miles wanted to punch out all the other trumpet players of that time. Once having
scowled at Blue Mitchell's rendition of "Nardis" while standing in the back of the Blue Note
recording studio. But Chet, as marvelous as he was, rubbed a lot of people the wrong way.
dana

[Ed Hart]

there is old time back ally blues, then there's the big city busy blues, all-over-the-place in the onrush of heart, and so low and slow it can add tears to your life...all of it echoing in the big city brothers and sisters with ears and years, and occasionally a poem to remind us

[h d e rushin]

ed, that's spoken like a man who recalls the blues of back alleys and big cities....I love it....dana

[jacob erin-cilberto]

not about pain, it's the blues....but there is no past for the heart to reside in.

it's the now blues...i have traveled a lot..but mostly only in my mind...

and my mind still travels backwards....the rear view mirror blues call to me.

but try to move on...i know the past to be true, just wonder if the future will be, as well.

[Ed Hart]

i love your words here, jacob