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I.
Night club. 
The beat pounds through the walls 
of the room, washing over the audience,
drowning them in the excitement of the 
piece. The pianist's fingers fly
over the keys, pouring out a spice of melody
too fast to count. The bass sweats
to keep with the tempo, heart pounding 
and fingers burning, playing on 
pure adrenaline, longing to 
speed things up even more. A wild grin
on the drummer's face, smashing his cymbal
with total abandon and perfect control, (one)
two (one) two (one) two (one) two racing
through his head. The passion is 
contagious; the crowd is 
wide-eyed, overwhelmed 
by the music. Every mind is on 
fire. No one is sitting still.

II.
Street corner.
Ragged jacket.
A poor man plays the saxophone
on a downtown sidewalk
just past noon. He holds it with 
care; it's his whole world, 
all he's got, save ten bucks in change
in the case by his feet. His misfortune
is the blue stream flowing out of him
through the smooth sounds of his 
instrument, funneled from the depths
of his soul. His solo
is accompanied by the stray clink
of a quarter, a dime
from someone who doesn't know
what it's like to have
no place to go from here.

III.
Living room.
My brother wrapped in music,
nothing but the bass
matters right now. He snatches at the strings,
pulling out sound with a commanding
but light-hearted touch. Standing by the 
big front window, silhouetted 
by the afternoon, so absorbed 
in his playing that he
doesn't hear me when I ask
him a question. No, he hears me,
but he can't bear to kill the song when
he's just about to get to the 
good part. I stand patiently for a while, 
but eventually wander back to 
what I was doing before. Minutes
later, he gives me an answer.

IV.
Vegas.
Still dazzled by the lights
of the signs outside, I'm floating
through the evening. We sit loosely in a
dimly lit cavern on the 
14th story, scattered with tables. 
The stars on the ground are
more spectacular than the ones
in the sky. Up front is the
band, trumpets blaring, drums
thumping ever so precisely
just off the beat. A crash of
applause signals the end 
of every solo and introduces
the main theme again. Light dances
on the brass and in the eyes
of the players.

V. 
Auditorium.
Four flutes and a piano. I have to laugh
as they strike up a familiar tune, so
out of character for the normally stiff
winds. Five-four time, ba dum, 
ba dum bum bum
like an irregular heartbeat but
it feels so right. The song slithers
through the air, transposed
to this unfamiliar silver tongue. 
I watch feet shaking 
in time with the pianist's
all down the aisle,
resting on the backs of the 
seats of the row in front 
of us. We let down
our guard.

VI. 
Living room.
Sitting at the piano, 
striking an uncertain chord. 
Think fast
change to a different one. It's
12 bar blues, my brother's got the melody,
I'm trying to 
take up the slack. I hit all
the wrong keys. We stop for
a few minutes. He shows me how to 
invert the harmonies and suggests
a new scale, another rhythm. We
start up again, I try to 
do it right, but I trip and
it sounds awful. He nods and
keeps playing, grinning 
like I nailed it.

VII. 
Car. 
Mingus mingus mingus
mingus mingus, the case 
proclaims in defiance of my 
raised eyebrow. The CD flashes
as it slides into the slit. Years away, 
somebody strikes up a 
tune I've never heard, but
like at once. I stare out of
the window in the back seat
and watch as the sound
illustrates the scenery exactly, 
as if it were written just for me, 
just for this. I get so lost
in it, I don't even notice that 
the song ends until I blink
and it's a whole new style.

VIII. 
New Orleans.
Deep in the heart of the city
jazz is pumping, flowing out like
blood to every extremity, every little bistro,
every bright-eyed dreamer who wants 
to make it big some day, trumpet in
hand. Walk down the street and find
the place where jazz evolved. You can 
feel it in the air like a thick vapor, pulsing 
in the alleys and whipping into
whirlwinds when someone 
finds their muse. It veils the stars but
they shine more clearly for it, 
when the fire that lights the wild applause of
the audience flares up in the midnight and
burns the sky away until
dawn.

IX. 
Living room. 
Back at the piano, watching my hands
as they fumble the shift
to a different chord. I hear
the sounds I want 
running through my mind,
untouchable. My fingers
couldn't keep up to that 
even with paper to follow.
I shake my head and try it again, glad my
brother isn't here to see this. I'm working to
improve my improv, 
but as usual it's to no avail. 
Just have to keep settling 
for plain chords 
for now but
it's hard.

X. 
Auditorium 2. 
Standing by the racks of school
cellos and basses, can't resist
the urge to pick one 
up. Plunk out strains of 
half-known accompaniments, a couple
lines of 'The Pink Panther' brings
a smile to my eyes. A few
people saunter over to 
watch, the real bassists 
scoff at me. I pluck quietly
in a foreign dialect of music, until 
the director asks me what I think I'm doing
and makes me put it up. I try
not to laugh, and ease the 
huge hollow body
back into its stand.

XI.
Downtown.
A café surely sits along 5th, 
its doors wide open 
late into the night, 
music spilling softly into 
the streets for the 
passer-byers to wash their 
sins in. There must be a woman sitting  
at the table in the corner by a window, 
comfortably far from the slow trio 
playing across the room. She can see
the lights scattered like marbles over
the sides of the skyscrapers
rising like a forest around her. 
She sighs, sipping the
blue tune with her coffee, waiting for 
what.

XII. 
Living room. 
Electric bass line.
Amp switched on, set to full blast
to my father's displeasure. We crank it 
down a notch. My fingers flit down the
neck, the frets clacking against the string. 
My brother's tune moves like an eel, 
coiling back and forth into tiny crevices of
the key with a fluidity to shock
ice water. I follow more clumsily, but 
I am not ashamed. This is my brother
in his element, this is
what 
he
is.
I do my best to accompany;
He gives me a solo every few minutes.

XIII. 
Traveling.
I'm laying in the back seat again, going
don't know where, don't know why, but 
there's a trumpet in the background
and the ceiling is crawling with
slow soft shadows. They trace patterns 
in my eyes that I know I won't remember,
shifting smoothly like the music playing 
on the edge of hearing. Outside, the city
is filled with a hundred tiny suns, brightly
shining into dark space, hanging on
intricate honeycomb structures
rising into the night. I watch casually
then sink lower into the seat. I am
mesmerized by the swirling gray
and the trumpet trills quietly 
as I linger on the brink of sleep.