183

Her Ocean

Wayne Wolfson By

Sign in to view read count
Moody night thoughts —Image Rich Musings
The two words you ache for the most are also the hardest (to find).
The clouds rolled back, a burlesque shows curtains rising for the matinee. That big stupid animal waiting to devour me, the crowd waiting. Waiting A bird flew by, I had seen the wires attached to its wings.
Indifferent, they clap.
She would be back. She always came back, sometimes looking different. The first few times I had asked her where she was, where she had been.
"Shhh, just play your horn."
I got back at her though. No, not the smacks, those did not mean anything either way. I simply stopped asking. It's what she wanted and it hurt her.
She was not around enough to realize one of the floor boards in the hall creaked. It always had.
The creak, the flip of the switch and Manha de Carnaval.
Even in complete absence of light I could play it well. Always the same ritual.
She would drape her jacket over the back of the chair. I would move it, but just a little. Thinking she knew where it was, a miss, fumbling in the dark.
Now the blouse was unbuttoned. It rested on the chair. A soft, warm silken skin whose color was fading.
She lay on her back, blowing smoke rings which I tried to pierce with final notes, up at the ceiling.
"Is anyone coming over?"
She always asked, but by now she knew I did not like people, at least not anybody living. All my heroes were dead.
All any of us could hope for was distraction.
Steady. Feet in the small of my back, the scent of vodka, tobacco, the scent of ruin. Promises murmured with closed eyes. True, but only for that moment.
Muscles contract, it's heaven. Fleeting. Heaven, momentary and then exile.
The music was a distraction too, but that at least mattered. It had to.
There was a semblance of control too. A give and take that did not seem so tawdry. The cold mouthpiece always warmed. I had to have it and she worked with me.
On an inspired night I would oil the valves and let my fingers dance. We would tickle the dawn. The last song a repeat of the first, but no one seemed to notice.
She always came back. It always came back, the pain of loneliness, a fire kept stoked by the accompanying embarrassment.
The two words you ache for most are also the hardest.
Good bye.

Tags

comments powered by Disqus

More Articles

Read The Fire in Coltrane’s Lungs Jazz Poetry The Fire in Coltrane’s Lungs
by Larry Jaffe
Published: August 2, 2014
Read Kissing Cousins: Jazz + poetry = jazz poetry Jazz Poetry Kissing Cousins: Jazz + poetry = jazz poetry
by Jeff Winke
Published: May 1, 2014
Read The Answer is Jim Jazz Poetry The Answer is Jim
by William DeLancey Adamson
Published: December 11, 2013
Read Birds with Long Red Tails Jazz Poetry Birds with Long Red Tails
by Adriana Carcu
Published: October 28, 2012
Read Poetry in Motian Jazz Poetry Poetry in Motian
by William DeLancey Adamson
Published: November 23, 2011
Read Black Sage (for Henry Grimes) Jazz Poetry Black Sage (for Henry Grimes)
by Gordon Marshall
Published: July 17, 2011
Read "Laura Jurd: Big Footprints" Interview Laura Jurd: Big Footprints
by Ian Patterson
Published: February 16, 2017
Read "Zbigniew Seifert Jazz Violin Competition 2016" Live Reviews Zbigniew Seifert Jazz Violin Competition 2016
by Martin Longley
Published: September 16, 2016
Read "Easy Swing, Fours and More, Medicinal Jazz" Mr. P.C.'s Guide to Jazz Etiquette... Easy Swing, Fours and More, Medicinal Jazz
by Mr. P.C.
Published: December 1, 2016
Read "Bill Evans on meeting Miles" Jazz Raconteurs Bill Evans on meeting Miles
by Nenette Evans
Published: February 15, 2017
Read "Bill Frisell's "Guitar in the Space Age" at the Blue Note" New York @ Night Bill Frisell's "Guitar in the Space Age" at...
by Peter Jurew
Published: October 20, 2016
Read "Bill Frisell: A Portrait" DVD/Film Reviews Bill Frisell: A Portrait
by John Kelman
Published: March 14, 2017

Sponsor: JANA PROJECT | LEARN MORE  

Support our sponsor

Join the staff. Writers Wanted!

Develop a column, write album reviews, cover live shows, or conduct interviews.