bill evans trio on full volume

a half pot of coffee

an empty bottle of pills

falling into the crescendo

the racing chords, dischordiant, harmonic dissidence

strumming across the rags i call a soul

opening doors

slamming windows

the pots and pans clang erratically in time

my brain rattles like the high hat

a paint brush on the snare

the low rumble of bass

i sit on the floor spilling my guts to the void

the crumbled pages of my life’s journal pile up around me

i don’t ever delete a thing

just hit publish and send it out into the nether

one broken heart emoji at a time

the highs are so very high

but the lows Baby, oh the lows

like jumping from a plane, ripping the chord to see your clothes catch the wind

i have been going without a parachute for far too long

and as the jazz sprints to the finish line and the horns hit i find myself craving something else

something i cannot have

and in the face of the impending face plant into the ravine

before i leave a human shaped crater in the ground

before the album stops and my idiot brain plays something sad

You are the jazz

i am the quiet moments between songs