o jazzmen!

it's on C street. just a little joint. you gotta go upstairs, past the pawnshop to the left. past the broken dreams propped up behind bars. past the curvy guitars and dusty phonograph players.

it's on C street. there is no sign. it's got a name, but it don't matter.

you just head upstairs. up the steps littered with cigarette butts and the occasional playing card. watch out for the bare bulb swinging.

follow the sound of the horns.

that's what i do.

i go to listen to the jazzmen. to the high sweet skittering notes of the piano. to the low soft brush of the drums. to the grating squeal of the saxophone. to the clink of ice in watery drinks. to the sad wordless hum of the gurl-singers.

but most especially, i go to hear the trumpet player.

i sit as close as i can without being in the light. i want to look at him. i want to listen to him. i want to touch him, touch the drop of sweat rolling down his dark cheek.

ain't nothing quite like a trumpet player.

he stands, playing off to one side. almost as if he doesn't want to be the center of attention. as if he's embarrassed. but i can tell from the spread of his legs, from the set of his hips that he's the master, here. he's just concentrating. pulling the notes out from deep within. he has to do that from the side. just to the side. oblique. subtle. it's him, you see. just his way. the way he blows that horn.

and oh, how the master plays.

it's sad and soft. sweet and sharp. a tender sort of cutting that slides gently into the body. it doesn't even hurt. not right away. it's only as the notes start to settle in, burrowing deeper into my viscera that i want to cry.

if my soul had a sound, i think it would be a trumpet's soft blurry blow.

the only mercy i find, is that the trumpet player doesn't sing. if he did, my soul would be lost.

as it is, he just has my body.

jazz notes like fingertips running up and down my spine. the trumpet like a tongue in my ear.

i suppose it's a gift of sorts, but mostly i find it's a curse. that i don't just _hear_ music, but _feel_ it as well. in a little joint like this, with a master trumpet player blowin' it's like, well, it's like...

breath of the horn blowing in my ears & sliding down my throat as i swallow hard. piano notes like hands brush brush brushing across my belly. the drums a gentle rap against my lower back.

that's why i try to sit in a corner. away from the light.

i can't really hide how i feel.

i try drinking, i try not drinking. the burn of the alcohol doesn't make any difference. i can't stop the trumpet player from blowing right through me.

i keep coming to these little joints. i can't stay away. i must follow the horns. it's my gift. my curse.

at least he doesn't sing.

but oh, how he plays! the jazzmen, the jazzmen...

i stay. set after set. i listen to the jazzmen. i drink my watery drinks and let the trumpet have its way with me.

finally, the last set. the musicians are packing up. i go. i think i'm leaving but instead i find myself waiting in the alley. waiting. for the horn player.

i know he will come.

down the stairs. past the pawnshop selling dusty dreams. past the broken bottles and leftover confetti.

i wait.

and he comes. did he know i would be here, hunched anxiously in the alley, waiting just for him?

i don't know.

he's got his trumpet case in one hand and a cigarette in the other. he looks at me and leans up against the brickwork. inhales deeply.

we don't speak. he leans, smokes his cigarette. i stand against the wall and find my hands are clasped tightly in front of me. i can't seem to release them.

we look at each other. the space between us is a tangible thing. i long to step closer i find myself stepping forward i find myself opening my mouth--

i think i am about to speak to him but instead i find myself singing to him in a low rusty whisper--

i find myself singing to the trumpet player who stands, off to one side, listening to me. listening with an inscrutable expression. just to the side. oblique. subtle--

i can't believe i am singing my heart to this jazzman, to this trumpet player in the alley by the shop of wasted dreams. i can't believe it but i know it is true. i know i am doing it i know by looking into his brown eyes as he watches me as he listens to my rough warble--

some souls just have the power to make you speak the truth. this horn player was making me do just that. he plays me, just like that--

i thought i detected a faint smile on his lips, but it was hard to tell through the smoke. and yet, i had to continue. had to pour out this gravelly alto song that the horns had set off--

i find myself leaning closer to him i find myself with my hands clasped in prayer i find myself singing lower and lower delving down deeper--

--lower and lower till i'm not singing anymore not so much singing or whispering but only humming out the last notes i can the only music i have left i give it to him, to the trumpet player, the master, the man--

and when my throat finally swells up & i can't even moan out another sound we simultaneously step toward each other--

and i want to bite down and taste him, taste the sweet smoke of his blood, drink up his music in great thirsty gulps. i feel it is the only thing to stop the burning in my throat to stop the ache the truth has left in my throat.

i want him.

but. i. will. not. take. him.

even if it means the ache in my throat will never end. even if it means i will never sing the truth again.

we share a kiss, instead.

and he pours smoky gold into my mouth. he gives, o yes, he gives the truth right back at me. mellow and soft and bitter bitter bitter--

i wrap my arms around his waist inside his jacket. but he only caresses my breast casually with one hand. he hold the trumpet case in the other.

and, though i am aching burning needing to drink his blood i hold off. i swallow up the tang of his saliva instead.

i am concentrating so hard on the kiss that i am surprised when he bites me.

_he_ bites _me_.

nips at my tongue. draws blood. runs his tongue around my mouth and swallows. he swallows _my_ blood. and breaks the kiss.

i am so surprised that i cannot close my mouth when he steps away.

he has taken all my words. the last of my song. and a bit of my blood. and i let him. i let him take it all away as he steps out of my arms and walks away. walks away with one last casual caress at my hip. walks away with the trumpet in his hand. walks away. walks away. walks away.

and i stand now, without sound or motion. i watch him go.

i watch him till he turns out of sight. i watch till the last of his smoke dissipates. i watch till there is nothing left to look at.

o jazzman!

and in that dark alley by the pawnshop of forgotten dreams propped up behind bars i chew at my wrist like a feral animal until i can feel again........................................................


(ain't even good enough to use
& that's why i sing the blues)



copyright 1996 by jewel (Julieann M. Brown-Micko)

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