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Trombone MAG
In places like these the dust doesn't settle, it gets rolled up in zigzag papers 
 and filtered through the bodies of daytime state workers.
 I come for the jazz not the coffee and all I leave with is poetry. 
 I tip but mostly conspicuously, I want to give them the feeling 
 and it's worth losing the money,
 funny how you feel when it's sunny for the first day in a month of rain.
 
 The trombone is narrating my grandparents' first date 
 fence hopping with wet socks through the sweat-dusted stockyard
 after dark started lifting, but – 
 the drums cut him off in a prelude to a kiss,
 missed the connection of lips around 6 a.m., just to trade fours with a Casio.
 Oh, sweet jazz
 You never quite say it.
 A jazz solo is a bureaucrat 
 a diplomat
 scat caught skirting around the issue
 because if you just said what you meant,
 what you wanted,
 there'd be no magic in the 
 no romance in the
 melody melody melody.
 No, you have to make me believe you
 just like any sob story worth a buck by a burning bush in a trash can 
 Where Lost Moses moans with the Hebrew hobos 
 Somewhere sort of like South Franklin.
 Just like an election
 Or a TV special,
 or a long late-night email
 with tall Mystery herself,
 It's not the story,
 it's all in how you tell it.

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This article has 8 comments.
I would be honored if you posted some of my poetry to your tumblr. You could link to my TI profile, yes. Is there any chance I could get the URL of your tumblr so I could follow you?
On a slightly different note, would you mind if I posted some of your poetry on my tumblr? I would credit you, of course (I'd most likely give a link to your TI profile, unless you'd prefer another site), if you're fine with that. Thanks! :)
