Jazzman

There was a man standing
in front of me,
a tall lanky black man,
at least fifty.
I would have kept walking,
but he was looking
right at my face, smiling.

I nodded a hello,
and he lifted a long, thin,
arthritic finger and pointed
at me. He squinted a bit,
and with a smirk, said in
a thick N'Orleans accent,
"You look like a blues man."

Confused, I offered the only
response that seemed rational
and true,
"You look like a jazz man, yourself."

He grinned. "My brother,"
he whispered, and hitting
me on the shoulder, shambled
on his way.

looking glasses

and what, if anything,
do you take from this,
your own idea of what
dreaming is, what life
is, and what death is?

listen.

are you uncomfortable
with yourself or with
your life or with your
appearance? there was
a time in history where
realism was art and
expressionism had no
place.

we're all pretty vain
now, aren't we?

don't make sense don't

your stars my stars
only impulse
find sky motherless

have gone away,
lost in a sea
of complacency
and consumption.
Forgotten forever
in tomorrow.
As a balloon,
free,
in the open air,
towards the heavens.

When people look at me,
they see one thing.
My identity has become
a reflection,
nothing is mine.

I am different than I was.
That much is true.

I am more than that,
you know.