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Miles Davis lived around the block from me deep in the upper west side of Manhattan island.
He played like one man could be an island living for his horn that paid his daily bread living in this house made of gingerbread, on West 77th Street while I lived on West 76th.
I would see him every now and again going into that brownstone that his horn built.
I got to meet miles
Walked round the block, walked round the clock where Miles stood outside his homestead just proud as peacock. He told me how much he liked San Francisco women because their bottoms were so round not flat from riding subways all days, he said with smile.
Nudging me, guy hood joke "You know what I mean." We went inside past the New York façade into his musical domain headquarters for lonely horn players
The purity of Miles' trumpet leans into me he sings it blue. My eyes tear uncontrollably.
He has touched melodies that riff with magic, I escape ego with this horn. It is evolution of life in notes counterpoint. My fingers feel broken, wanting to make the same sounds with words
that staccato lip thing that merges horn with man.
Miles showed me his trumpet in this house of sugar coated dreams.
When I was a kid I dreamed of playing trumpet but I wore braces on my teeth... they said I would cut my lips to ribbons and bleed on my horn.
I looked up with tears and thought Miles, Miles always bleeds on his horn
As a kid, my mom told me I'd like jazz. I thought she was nuts. Then I went to hear Cannonball Adderley (with Nat Adderley, George Duke, Walter Booker, Roy McCurdy and Airto) and everything changed. Yeah, mom knows best.