dexfarkin

Jazz is a language of invention. With each moment, from note to note; each improved trill and range along the scales is carving new meaning out of an empty void. Sound beyond words, conveying meaning. He plays with singular determination, alternating between a gentle caress on the keys to a beating against them; violence leading to caress and back to the aggressive striking against the wires. Half of the hammers were thumb-tacked, a technique stolen from honky-tonk bars, creating a ringing flare of metallic sound to undercoat the cascading notes.

There was some Dr. John and some Ray Charles, but mostly it was shades of James and Roarke and Bell and above all Monk. Monk like a possessing spirit, that ranged back and forth over the keys and drank down all the whiskey. The fingers that danced, flicker quick over to the upper register, also lit a cigarette and snapped for a refill. They all watched the little body move, and the hat keep time over the edge of the piano.

The Poet barely listened, his iPod locked into his ears and the Jack and soda diluting as the ice slowly melted in front of him. Music was for inspiration to real art. A melodic mathematical exercise.

The smatters of applause pull him from a trance of self-satisfaction. The Pianist is done, the hat bobbing in acknowledgement has he hops down from his bench and the stage. Capers, considers the Poet. He capers, the little jester; the fool. Where is your Lear?, he thinks, and considers writing the line down to use later. It doesn't matter.

The stage is his.

The piano is flinchingly cleared before the Poet, who ascends. Just a stool and a microphone and his words. No notes, no instruments; just the purity of his communication. The stool feels like a throne.

His court is unruly. The Yeungling and the Jack have been fighting for mouth space with talk all night, even as the Pianist ignored it. Words didn't need to fight other words, the Poet thought, and called for quiet.

Once.

Twice.

He saw the porkpie hat still bobbing; the swell of conversation still around him, in absence of the pretty notes. His own words being stymied by an interloper. It would not do. It would not do, and in three long strides, he was at the table and before the little Pianist.

The Poet reached out, and snatched a blow against the Pianist's mouth; open handed and open mouthed. They grabbed him as he struggled with words and body; communicating and failing. While the sight of the porkpie hat, that fool's hood, lay on the floor and told the story that everyone was listening to.