Jazz Band

March 27, 2009
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Alto Sax,
Wailing about like some prehistoric bird
I sit in the back with a cigar in hand,
Smoke creates a filter, opaque view of the band.
Robots stand on the lit, wooden floor
Bobbing their heads, the beat, their master
But no, I sit
I sit and listen
An observer, not a slave
The negroes voice begins to wail
And for a brief second, I am not in form
I am me
I am you
I am Earth
I am Sun
I am Universe
But reality hits fantasy hard
“Another drink, sir?”
Beauty. Blonde Waitress
Take her to my place after the show.
Jazz Band plays.
I relax, listen, groove.

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