People ask me why I write how I do. I tell them, “I want my words to swing.” “Swing?” “Yeah…
Listen to Duke Ellington, Count Basie, any other jazz great, & you’ll know what kind of swing I mean.” If you know me deeply, or have come across some of my poetry, you’ll know I love jazz. I have a passion for it. I sleep covered in rhythm, brush my teeth in time-four tempos, tap my feet while doing everyday activities. I came across this genre while looking for meaning within music. There’s something about being serenaded by Stan Getz, while dancing with that perfect shape, that’ll get her skin covered by me wanting to expand our vision to all-night sights of slow dance-embraces. Jazz is art. Simple in its rudiments, & can be complex in the same breath. If I had a choice, I’d love to live when Bird first took flight. When the Savoy housed Chick Webb vs. Benny Goodman. Must’ve been electric. I’d be a 52nd street vagabond. Absorb all the lights & sounds & sleep only when my eyes weighed more than what my mind could hold. What it must’ve sounded like when Sonny Rollins would play deep into the night, practicing craft into the dark wind. Poetry & jazz cover my passions & hobby-grabs. Whether I write to a Coltrane ballad or to Dizzy shredding notes in blender-tempos, I’ll try to mirror what it is what I hear: rhythm inside emotions that could draw a picture with the hand of creativity.