Smoky Jazz

ciggete smoke is curling  around my fingers, quiet jazz is playing from the record on the table next to me. The sun has gone down in the city, it is late but yet it does not sleep it never does. I can hear so many things, the water dripping fro the tap. an ocasional honk of a horn on the streets bellow and the people in the apartent telling again this time over the rent last week the car.

I am writing again I had stopped by in the kitchen it came to me again like an old friend showing up out of the blue. This night things come to me. Ideas flow with the music. My fingers dance to the sound of the standup base.

My foot is taping again tiled floors. and in my mind i am far away. I am in Venice again this time as a painter last time it was a drfter and the time before i was a singer in a jazz club in New Orleans.

There is something magical about writing, such a small group really know what that feels like. To  make something that is yours, something from nothing the peoples  the lives the good times and the bad are all made from nothing. But i reality they are nothing but a bag of bones.

A siren breaks my floo and i look out my little window. some lights are still on in the buildings around me. I ponder who they are why they are up. are they like me keeped up by ideas or are they so tortored sleep is imposible even this far past the witching hour.

The Jazz plays on and with it my thoughts. Some go on the paper in the old type writer others but float away with the smoke of my ciggete.