Her calves flex and contract, heel toe, heel toe, under a medium red dress. Hair is up today exposing the long soft nape of her neck to god and sun. While her hips are pumping from side to side, her eyes stay fixed on the future. Somewhere a dirty trumpet takes another solo. Jazz is the music of bodies in movement. Galileo should have invented the saxophone instead of the telescope. Music is math that doesn't add up. In a clarinet there is no sense, in a harp there is no reason. I once saw a man paint a staff on glasses so everywhere he looked was music. He lay on his back and played the stars. Concertos in a flock of sparrows,symphonies in wild flowers. A wild blond takes a strawberry waltz in the city. She hears Mozart in a coin-op washing machine. Right next door a pair of button-flys in the dryer pang loneliness to the man who sits before them. Pigeons flutter a drum roll finished by a car crash, no one applauds, and no one takes a bow.
© 2004 Justin Wilson