ten fingers light a cigarette. big block chords up and down the piano like neon paint. slow jazz. slow blues. sad. deep and full as the night, playing one chord next to the other. first one and then another. the lights wet streets empty glasses empty tables and an ashtray. two bottles of wine, the fog and a taxi the full moon the hotel the bed twisting and turning. the jazz band at 2am went crazy and screamed all over the room. more fog from consciousness. more music at a table alone looking straight ahead at space. the good dream gone. forgetting where i came from. forgetting my name. so i walked around the corner to ellis and powell and all is gone. the good dream gone. barefoot, no shirt just a scarf thrown over me. so many people on the street walking but i dont care. jazz blowing a midnight blues. it's something to do. a black and blue midnight blues. first i found a seat and sat there listening. then i got up and walked to the corner of grant and broadway. i stood there waiting for the cars to pass. i waited for the bus. i waited for the moon. by the time i got to the cafe, i had to wait for the nurses to bring me my meds and the little white tabs. but they're always late. so i stood at the corner of sutter and hyde and waited for the bus. i listed to jazz with the brushes pushing so softly that only i can hear. i stood on the corner of geary and taylor and waited for the bus and i waited to hear big block chords that go nowhere. drum beats that beat for nobody. sleep that is only good for me. melodies only i can hear. bright lights. big city. the good dream gone. i drink up and have another for the good dream gone.
