mood indigo

There is a blue so blue

it’s black

and a black that shines

deep blue.

The two meet

in midnight

under a blue, mysterious

moon.

And there are stars

about two billion you can see,

back behind the raised stand

where the piano man

deliberately

conjures them, one by one,

clustering

into the smoky

room…

…then comes from the line,

and casually

saunters in, so fine,

the lonely, throbbing

saxophone;

who weaves lines of longing together

until they wind tighter and shorter

until longing, aching turns frantic, wild,

throwing fingers, lips everywhere

on her invisible flesh

writhes and falls, screams and moans

and falls back, back, back

into the line

conceding, as he must…

…thumps dark bass

the ebony lumps, humps

the deeper brooding

thoughts swing,

yes…

where is she, where’s my baby

maybe…

will she be there

tonight after the gig

will the clandestine match

be struck

after this midnight

in a blue sheet bed

in unknown shadow

hotel

will we love

will we meet

will my passion

be served

and will I serve

her own

yearning

now and will I be

turning

out

the

light?

Snakes in the drums

and sliding cymbals

to ruminate on beats

wind the clock

in eccentric springs,

sly: bodies move

in inkwell skies.

Here’s a lick and another

insistent, ancient

like the night shore crashes,

moving with hisses

pounding through hollow rock

and over luminescent

sands;

culmination!

then the settling moon

nods and turns,

sleepy-eyed and sober,

to tie the threads

and merge all things

into familiar form.

And so, the melody

traces fingers along the curves

of the blue/black goddess,

caressing the microphone

invoking primal and pagan prayer

celebrating polished breasts, coffee thighs--

ecstatic promises,

Her essential swampy core,

the birthing of stars…

Look; she’s

confident, despite the words

of loss and heartache,

that she holds the key

to everything

in her long

obsidian fingers,

Sad eternal smiles

as she nods in time

to the swing of men,

all helpless and restless

hungering men

behind her on the stand.

And that’s how it all goes down;

it comes like a storm

from minds and loins,

the furnace of the void,

from heartbeats, through fingers

and sultry lips,

flashing lightning and rain

clearing, to reveal sweet night,

midnight black,

starry white

and mood indigo.