Jazz, yeah jazz,jazz and then more jazz but not just jazz, Tonight, Maria, and When your a Jet your a Jet all the way, to your first cigarette to your last dying day, dancing down Grant Avenue in the middle of the night and you owned it. Yeah baby, its yours all wrapped up in fantasy tissue and ribbon crossed and bleeding life
San Francisco 1959, six months of freedom between college and marriage later in June
Coffee house chatter and mix, Sartre, Rimbaud, Miller and Nin. Coltrane, Miles, Mulligan and Simone. Oh yeah I home. No longer alone, but lonely, between naive teen and hip and groovy chic. Dressed in black on black, walking the fogged blurred streets, watching yesterdays news fly down the streets of the financial district in bunches and blobs on a deserted Sunday stroll. Thinking drunk tank pubs were cool with their garish light and wordless poets. But Jazz, spilling out on the streets at night promising exotic entanglements or more, beat, beat, snap, snap, yeah baby, be bop a dop, whooo de a do a doo dop a loo dop a skiiiiiiiii yap a do wah a do wha YEAH. That was my drug, my memory, what I miss, what I long for, what I rmember before regular life set in and I felt a prisoner and have dug every hole I can to escape.
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