dizzy

walking inside with my horn, the bassist is already strumming as

the drummer taps on the drums like

that soft cool breeze.

the tenor is assembling, he's a big black man they call Blue,

he's quiet but when he plays he's like a dancer,

one of those like a snake in a basket.

we have this guy Mike on Piano from Brazil,

he fell in love with jazz in the slums, one I always felt I could relate to the most.

growing up and loving jazz, alone from everybody else, nobody understanding why.

but we did, and that's why we were here. bound by this rare magic.

there is Gilbert going up on stage again with his trumpet.

he likes to wear these damn white suits like Duke,

like Duke Ellington you know.. and sometimes I think he would wear the hat too,

but no, not tonight. there's more rare magic to be made here in this small place in San Diego.

this loft with high wooden ceilings, red brick walls.

sometimes a few will venture through with the dark in their eyes.

sometimes they wont at all. Gilbert stands in the corner now,

Blue dances like a snake and not the other way around. he's almost done,

but no, not yet. he's too hot right now. but I'm ready.

I'm ready with the narrowed dark in my eyes.

and so my horn goes up,

to where the lights turn to steam.