Bob McNeil
Jazlynn
Through a Harlem hotel window,
I heard the day
imitate “Rhapsody in Blue.”
One clarinet wheeled in howling.
Later, there were rush hour notes
from saxophones, trumpets,
woodwinds and violins.
Besides their vehicular tonality,
there were additional instruments
arousing my tympanum.
Then, the day swung to another rhythm
and its Chick-Webb-fast drumming life
was beckoning my feet.
Opposing my slow drag dance mood,
the alarm yelled,
“Since Duke Ellington’s A Train
Won’t nap,
Out tap the Nicholas Brothers
And do Cab Calloway’s ‘Jumpin’ Jive.’”
On a queen-sized bed,
an Oshun-picturesque seductress,
who should have been
Billie Holiday’s twin,
said hello
in that way good gin gets you.
Inebriated by everything she stated,
I heard her say,
“In our jam,
you grooved well,
real well,
but don’t exit
until after the encore kisses,
crooner.”
My response was all raspy,
similar to Louis Armstrong’s exuberance
when he sang “Hello, Dolly.”
A few coughs into my sentence,
my voice became Chet Baker’s.
Either the coffee
or her kisses
made my hangover
recede and it revealed
her name.
Her name was Jazlynn,
but she preferred
to be known as
Jazz.
by Bob McNeil
Copyright 2020
Thought-steering on the Atmosphere
From my mountain-high rooftop view of the city, far removed from rushing commuters, up here, where lights beam with the regalness of stars, where planes sail the cloud-clad road and go everywhere beyond my limited journeys, I feel Titan-tall on this summer night. Down there, I’m a moth among tuxedos. Understanding this, while fearing my place within that reality, I dream about remaining up here for the duration of a tree’s persistent life.
The moon wears a pretzel smile as if it's perplexed. Perhaps it’s thinking, I look at you look at me, but what are you to me? Because of continuous inspection, I realize the moon’s countenance is more on the order of contempt, contempt for its isolation as some of the world slumbers. Even though the sphere veils days, summons tides, inspires wolf-howling madness, and makes oceans sway, no power unlatches its prison cell loneliness.
As clouds and thought clusters roll by this tar beach, I watch the night exit behind a golden curtain. Feeling rested, at last, I realize that no matter the view, beauty is assessed by the disposition of an individual's black-robed judge. Such awareness gives me the mettle to greet my rush-hour-entropic responsibilities below.
by Bob McNeil
Copyright 2020